An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim
by littlejuliet
Summary: Altaïr finds himself in Skyrim as he stalks a new target. Unfortunately the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Quill, is also after the same man. In a partnership created partly out of necessity (Altaïr being entirely confused by his new strange surroundings) and partly out of curiosity (curiosity killed the werewolf), the two try to figure out who their common enemy is.
1. A Quiet Night in Riften

The wind from the north blew hard that evening.

Except for the encounter with the two snow trolls, it had been a fairly usual evening for Quill. She had made camp near a recently emptied dragon burial, and Shadowmere stood off in the shadows, a soft nickering now and then the only thing giving the horse's presence away. The icy wind howled through the trees, but all else was silent. Quill enjoyed these solitary evenings, away from the busy hall of the Companions, with Farkas and Alea and the other with their chatter, away from the penetrating gaze of Vilkas, that always set her slightly ill at ease; Away from the Brotherhood, away from the Night Mother…

Even though she was the Listener, she still felt a chill through her very soul whenever the Night Mother spoke to her. It was unnerving really, the words appearing directly in her mind, without having the decency of passing through her ears first. She gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.

She was in fact on her way to complete a contract. It was some high ranking officer of the Imperial, he had apparently planned to betray the Empire or something. In all honesty she didn't really care about the details, or why the concerned party didn't just deal with it themselves, she was just all too keen to drive her sword into the back of another lackey from the Empire. On hind sight, it might have served her better to find out more, but at the time she was just glad to be on her own, with nothing by the chilly sky above her.

It was well past midnight when Quill lay back, having watched the fire die down to embers. She pulled the bear skin cloak around her, staring up at the few stars visible between the clouds, but sleep evaded her still. With no success of sleep, she rose, cleared the camp and tied her bags onto Shadowmere's saddle, determined to continue on her way. It might even be to her benefit, she could arrive at Riften by midafternoon and be out of town again the following morning, her grim dead done.

Traveling in the dark has its benefits, especially when your horse has better night vision than even a werewolf, and she made good time, arriving at the gates of Riften even before the sun stood in the middle of the sky. She left Shadowmere at the stables – all the other horses quietly huddling in the furthest corner of the stable, giving both her and her horse nervous looks.

"To the inn first, for a nice mug of ale and a bowl of stew, and then I'll pay a visit to the thieves. See if there is any quick coin to be made while I'm in town," she thought.

Things went right according to plan, and Quill liked it when things went according to plan.

She was just creeping into the estate where her target was, the clocks having struck midnight an hour past, when she heard a strange noise - a tinkling, like broken glass, but softer.

"What in Oblivion", she thought, "the thieves know I am here on Brotherhood business, surely they would not attempt a robbery tonight? But then again, the thieves never do something as silly as break a window to get in…"

It was definitely someone or something else. This was confirmed by a strange golden light shining from beneath the door to her right. The door she was about to enter for her own business. With slow movements she edged closer, silently turning the handle and pulling the door open just a bit. She didn't know what to expect, but she was confused by the scene before her.

Standing over the recently deceased target – supposed to be her target – was a figure all in white, a hood obscuring its features, and a red sash about its waste. It sounded like he was speaking, or praying for the person he just slew. There was a completely foreign air to the stranger, but she was far too annoyed by this intrusion to heed the warnings of her own observations. Was this some new rival guild? Did they never learn not to mess with the Brotherhood?

Altaïr had dispatched his target, with his usual effortless style, but as he started taking in the room around him, he wondered where the Piece of Eden might have taken him. It was certainly not anywhere in Syria - it was far too cold too.

He became aware of something behind him, but casually continued with his usual ritual after an assassination – dipping a pure white feather in his target's spilled blood.

Quill snuck up close behind the man. He seemed wholly occupied in dabbing a feather in the blood of his victim, and taking this as her chance, she put her blade against his throat.

"Who sent you?" she growled into his ear. To her surprise he didn't jerk in shock, or tense in anticipation of cold steel again his skin. She put the blade slightly closer to his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulder.

Without warning, or hesitation, the man swung around in one fluid movement that a Khajiit would be impressed with, and had his own dagger neatly placed below Quill's ribs. The two stared into the voids of each other's eyes, both partly shrouded in shadow by a hood – one black, one white.

"Who sent you," she repeated, the words slightly muffled behind the face guard of her cowl.

Altaïr remained silent, confused by the face in front of him. It was female, but not quite like any he had ever met. Cool blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking, unrelenting, and just above the cowl covering the bottom half of her face he saw the beginnings of three slim scars on her cheek, and purple paint of some sort – one stripe above her brow and two more disappearing beneath the cloth.

Since her blade was no longer pressed against the intruder's throat, Quill used that hand in a quick movement to tug back his hood. She was half confused to see no more than a human man in front of her. This action, however seemed to take him by surprise, and in a half-automatic reaction he swiped his short blade across Quill's side.

She low growl escaped her throat as pain bloomed in her side. She was never one for heavy armor, and while the heavy leather of the guild-armor offered sufficient protection normally, it was of little use against such a sharp blade, at such close quarters.

She pulled free from his grip while he remained motionless, regarding her coolly. Quill made for the door, her keen hearing already picking up the noise of the guards approaching from below – they were, after all, in the lodging of a prominent man of the Empire, and he's personal guard would be the very best, not that that says too much, but in any case. Quill did not feel like fighting them all in her current state.

"Dammit," she hissed, looking over her shoulder at the strange man, still frozen in the corridor.

"Oh well, if you have a death wish, that's your own business." Altaïr heard her say before she kicked out a window pane, leaping out and landing quietly on the ground in front of the house. She soon disappeared into the surrounding shadows.

The city guard had been alerted by then, and between shouts and orders and running feet, Quill sat quietly and safely hidden in the dark, trying to tie up her side. She was annoyed with herself for neglecting to buy potions – "Cocky. I'm getting far too cocky. I thought this would be an easy, quick in – quick out job. Never take anything for granted, you fool," she berated herself.

The next moment a commotion from the house caught her attention. Two of the elite guards fairly flew through the window which she had used for her escape, small knives protruding from their throats as they lay gurgling. She lifted her nose to the sky and smelled blood, and a lot of it. Curiosity killed the werewolf, apparently, as she decided to creep nearer to the house again.

From her vantage point she saw the stranger surrounded by at least a dozen guards and soldiers, he didn't miss a single strike, blocking and dodging, felling numerous men before he too made a leap through the window. He, however, landed solidly on one of the guards that were busy streaming into the front door, an odd weapon on his wrist killing the guard in the process, before the man finally fled. After the initial confusion, the guards set off in hot pursuit.

Quill waited for most of the racket to die down, before she carefully snuck from her hiding spot. Well, it might not have gone entirely as she had planned – alright, not at all according to plan – but at least she was out in one piece. Sort of. She was determined to make her way to the sewers, Brynjolf would be able to get her some healing potions, she might even get a nice mug of ale and think things over. If this was a new rival assassin guild, she would have to hunt them down and stop them before they became a real threat to the Brotherhood.

Sticking to shady spots, she was almost at the hidden door in the graveyard, when she bumped into the stranger. Her immediate reaction was a muffled groan of surprise. She was really hoping to at least be rid of him for the evening. With a strange smirk, he stepped past her, and assuming the stance and gait of a priest of some sort, he casually and slowly walked on. Quill stared after him in disbelief, she had regained her hidden position in the shadows, and soon she heard the approaching steps. The stranger seemed entirely unconcerned. The guards, however, were exceedingly pleased to have found their target. Quill dropped her head into her hands, not sure whether she should laugh, or pity the fool.

"Why didn't it work?" she thought she heard him mutter in genuine surprise as he had to re-start his hasty escape. She was impressed as he leapt deftly onto a wall and clambered up onto the roof of a nearby house. The guards were, unfortunately for him, all equipped with bows.

Quill winced as she heard and arrow hit flesh, and the muffled cry and thud that followed, confirmed her suspicion. The guards were scouting carefully around the building, still fearful of this obviously skilled fighter. With a sigh of annoyed resolution, Quill ran to where she saw him fall. He was crouching, and seemed entirely dazed. She grabbed his arm, and after meeting her eyes, he followed her without hesitation as she dragged him up. He had little choice – it was either follow her, or be hunted down. She clearly knew what she was doing; she had managed to disappear into the shadows, where he had failed sorely.

They only once ran into a small group of soldiers, she flung around so quickly, shoving him into a new direction he nearly ended up going the wrong way. He heard the swish of a blade, and turning back he saw her expression change momentarily into a grimace of pain, but she continued driving him ahead of her until they reached a railing overlooking a waterway. Without much time to back track, or figure out where she was dragging him to, Altaïr had little option but to follow her as she leapt over the railing, still holding firmly onto his collar. To his great relief there was a small platform on the opposite side, hidden in darkness, and this had apparently been her destination.

She first had them hugging the wall, creeping in the shadow along the buildings; he tried to mimic her moves, placing his foot where hers had been.

She could hear the guards searching. They were quiet now, but no less intent on finding them. A quick look over her shoulder at the stranger's white clothing standing out like a beacon in the full moon, Quill pulled her cloak off and threw at him. He was half taken aback, but put it on wordlessly. She led him quietly hugging the shadows of a building. The guards had the sense to check on the dock by the water, and it took quite a bit of Quill's effort to force the man to stay flat against the wall, while the guards walked so close past them. She only relaxed once the danger had passed.

They soon found themselves in the Ratways, and Quill rolled her shoulders to ease some of the pent up stress she had suddenly developed. They hadn't spoken a word – he had offered no thanks, and she no explanation.

"This way," she said, taking him on the long and twisting route to the Ragged Flagon.


	2. The Ragged Flagon

"Boss!" Delvin exclaimed as they entered the cozy light of the Flagon. "It's you causing all the racket up stairs? Heard some strange things from the look outs, the guards are not happy."

"Are they ever?" Quill chimed in. "But, yes and no, it was only partly me. Please get me a few potions, and ale. Lots of ale."

She made her way to a little table in the far corner, all eyes following her and the stranger, but suddenly finding more interesting things on the floor or ceiling as she threw them a warning look.

Without a word she took off the chest piece of her black and brown armor when Delvin reemerged with her order. The linen shirt below was soaked in her own blood around the cut in her side. She applied a bandage, drank a health potion, and passed one of each to the man sitting silently across the table from her. He regarded the red bottle as if he'd never seen it before.

"What is this?" he finally asked.

"A Health potion," Quill replied, eying him even more sceptically. When he still looked at her in confusion, she rose with a sigh. "Really? No idea?" He shook his head.

The arrow she had thought hit him, in the end only left a deep gash through his upper arm. Shoving the potion towards him with the instruction "Drink", and she curbed the wound's bleeding with the bandage. The potion set to work actively and forcefully mending the damaged skin, an awkward sensation on a small wound, but it could be quite painful on something more severe. To his credit he barely flinched.

For a long time the two sat regarding each other across the table.

Quill was about to re-enquire about his presence during her contract, when he broke the silence first.

"Thank you for your assistance. This place is different from where I come from. After what happened tonight, I know I am very far from anywhere familiar."

Quill couldn't help but chuckle, as she replied, "It was truly the most baffling thing I saw when you casually sauntered off with half the guard on your tail – the other half being dead, of course." His brow furrowed at her statement.

"Don't look so glum, all worked out, I guess. I am however, much more interested to find out who sent you, and why you entirely botched my contract." She continued, her smile not wavering, but taking on a much more sinister air.

Either he didn't notice the edge of her smile, or he didn't care – the second seemed more likely – "Contract?"

"The assassination. Metillius Endario. The man you killed."

"Assassination," he repeated. "You're an assassin?"

"You really aren't from around here, are you," she said. "I am, yes. The Dark Brotherhood calls me the Listner." The title did not have the desired effect on him, and she frowned.

"What do you listen to?"

She stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Clearly, you and I have no further business. I had assumed you came from a rival guild. But considering the clear evidence that, despite being quite the fighter, you are entirely clueless, I see no need to drag this out further. Although standard practice is that you need to repay the Brotherhood for intruding on a contract, due to the odd circumstance, and you almost getting both of us killed, I say we can overlook the formalities." And with that she rose, signaling Delvin to escort him out.

She didn't get very far, for the man grabbed her arm and tugged her down to meet his hard gaze.

"I still have questions," he said levelly.

"Either you hit your head somewhere, or you are truly a dimwit. All the people in this cozy little corner of the sewer would happily slit you from belly to chin at my behest," Quill murmured below her breath.

"You would still be dead before they lay a hand on me," he retorted, resisting the urge to mention that he would probably be fine against the bunch he had seen lurking around the corners there in any case.

"So, what of it?" she asked, apparently fearless.

He released her arm, but she remained staring at him, each regarding the other critically, neither willing to break eye contact. A few men had gathered nervously closer to the table, but with an unseen motion, they took an order to stand down.

"What is your name?" she asked with a huff, finally looking away. _Damn curiosity again_, she thought.

"I will give mine, if you do the same. And tell me where I am."

"You are in Skyrim – the snow should have given it away. And you can call me any number of things – Listener; Archmage; Nightingale; Harbinger; or Dragonborn…" she paused. It might have appeared that she was showing off – but she was waiting for some kind of recognition in the man's eyes, something that he made a connection with – but none appeared.

"Where are you from?" she whispered, adding in a clearer voice, "Quill, at your service, stranger." She gave a gallant bow as she said this, causing a few of the nearby thieves to chuckle.

"Just - Quill?"

"Yes, if you choose to ignore all those titles I gave you," she said tartly, examining her nails.

"I am Altaïr," he said, almost inaudibly soft. "And if we are going on titles, Master Assassin."

Retaking her seat, and propping her feet up onto the table, Quill took a long draught of her ale. After some consideration, Altaïr did the same. It wasn't the best he had tasted, but it helped to drive the cold out of his stomach. The place was freezing to him, and when he realized he still had her cloak around his shoulders he pulled it closer about him.

"Altaïr," she turned his name around in her mouth. "You are a long way from home. I didn't know there was another guild in Hammerfell, the Brotherhood is usually the only one that survives. Why leave your toasty home for the frosty plains of Skyrim?"

"I'm sorry, Hammerfell?" he asked after taking another sip of ale.

"I… your clothing, looked very vaguely like it might come from there. You don't know it? Cyrodiil perhaps? Morrowind? High Rock – nothing? Elsweyr?"

He slowly shook his head.

"I do come from elsewhere - from Masyaf, in Syria," he said rather uncertainly.

"Never heard of it," she said dismissively. "Delvin?"

"Nah, can't say I 'ave," the man replied from the bar.

Altaïr couldn't help but wonder what trickery this was – the Piece of Eden was an object of illusions, yes, but this was something entirely different. The one moment he was in his study, trying to descide his next move, and the next he found himself a world away. This place felt real enough, he had the aching shoulder to prove that. But how does he get out again? Best to figure it out, and stay alive while trying. He'd need allies for that – in this strange world he felt rather thrown in the deep end.

This woman, Quill, seemed well enough connected, and rather good at staying alive – she might be just the person to help him. He was, however, not necessarily going to tell her everything. He shifted in his seat, confident in his decision, when he realized his shoulder didn't hurt nearly as much as it should.

Peering beneath his the bandage he was taken aback to see the wound almost completely healed. It appeared to be at least two weeks old, not two hours. He looked up to find Quill watching him with interest. "How?"

"What do you mean? It's not a very strong health potion, I know – remember I didn't know if you were going to be any more trouble, didn't want you fixed up too soon, in case I had to have go at you. Honestly I'd rather prefer not to."

"What? No, I mean – what do you mean it is not a 'strong potion'? I've never seen anything do that – heal a man in the span of hours what would normally take weeks…"

"You don't have potions where you come from?" she asked suspiciously. "How does one heal there?"

"You wait for the body to do its own healing…"

"That must be tedious. I had a broken arm once, we couldn't afford a potion or healer for a few weeks – I was in agony the whole time. Is that really how you do it?"

"Yes," he said, amazed at this strange illusion, for an illusion he was now quite convinced it was.

"No thanks, I'd even take a damned healing spell before I try that again!"

"Spell – as in magic?"

"No – you are kidding with me right?" she was about to elaborate when one of the newer thieves came rushing into the Flagon.

"They have Brynjolf, I don't know how it happened, Delvin – oh. Boss. Boss! we gotta do something!"

"Calm down – slowly. What happened?" Quill asked the young man.

"The - -the guard they saw one of the guild, well me…" he faltered, giving Quill a nervous look. "I was looking into where the commotion was with the Brotherhood business – and they spotted me, I ran, but I couldn't hide. Brynjolf shoved me over the railing into the river and led them away on a chase, I think he ran into another lot of guards, the body guards of the, erm, target." Here he shot another terrified look, first at Quill and then at Altaïr.

"Please, Boss – Listener, I didn't mean to intrude on Brotherhood business, I was only curious!" the boy implored, falling to his knees.

Quill balled her fist habitually around the hilt of her dagger, keenly aware that all eyes – including those of her new acquaintance - were firmly fixed on her. Altaïr was paying close attention to her – sure that she was on the point of slitting the boy's throat, but she merely thumped the boy behind the head with an exasperated sigh. He nearly fainted from fear and relief.

"Mind yourself next time. You," she said, turning to Altaïr who had by now risen from his chair, "this is your fault. Stay put," she ground out.

Within a flash three of the senior Thieves guild members were ready to depart. After gaining the location from the petrified youth they set off.

Altaïr was not planning to 'stay put' on Quill's orders, but he wanted a word with the messenger first.

"Tell me," he asked, as softly as he could, the boy was still very jumpy. "Is it usual for the assassin's guild to kill someone so readily?"

"Are you kidding?" the boy replied with a nervous giggle. "I am praying to all the gods in thanks just now – the Listener had every right… I had every expectation… to be skinned alive and used as the next sacrifice in a dark sacrament!"

None of what he said made too much sense, but Altaïr didn't like the sound of any of it. With a nod he headed for the door. He had a sudden distrust of these assassins.

"Are you crazy? She told you to stay here…" the boy began, but one look from the Master Assassin silenced him.


	3. What happens in Riften

Following them was surprisingly tricky, Altaïr was sure with her emotions running high Quill would have charged in with swords drawn, she looked like the rash type. But despite himself he was impressed – she barely left any trace of where her path led. What finally gave her progress away was, in fact the other Thieves, standing off in the shadows – almost invisible – by a large barracks.

They gave Altaïr eager grins as he approached, apparently not surprised to see him there. He heard a few muffled shuffles from behind the door, but further the night was quiet.

"We wait here," the one called Delvin whispered. "She'll open the door from inside, special locks you see, can't be picked from the outside. Too many thieves in the city," he said grinning widely.

A few seconds and several scratching sounds and muffled swear-words later the door opened slightly. Quill peered out at the men in the shadows, she only rolled her eyes when she spotted Altaïr. They snuck in, unseen and unheard.

Quill made a few hand movements that Altaïr didn't quite catch, but he assumed that two men would stay up there on watch, the rest was to follow her. One more flight down, she left another look out. Everywhere they went they came across guards knocked unconscious – not killed – a sign that she had already made her way through the majority of the place before opening the door. The last look out was left just outside the dungeon door, he took care of the single guard, and after dragging him into the shadows, the thief took his place on the chair. The thieves, apparently, weren't so eager to kill people, merely to get them out of the way temporarily.

The dungeon's stench was terrible – the smell of blood hung in the air so thick they could almost taste it. Altaïr noticed that Quill had become quite pale, her eyes bloodshot and her nostrils flaring. Seeing his enquiring look, she merely shook her head.

"_Must not like the smell of blood, that's ironic_," he thought.

They found Brynjolf in the lowest corner of the dungeon, cuffed to a wall and badly beaten. Quill made a strangled sound at the sight of him, and rushed to his side. She immediately set to work picking the locks around his wrists.

Altaïr stood to one side, keeping an eye out for any trouble.

Brynjolf came to with a painful cough. "Lass?"

"It's alright my friend, I'm getting you out of here," she said, working faster on the lock.

When the man's eyes focussed on Altaïr his expression turned to one of panic – "Quill, go, get out! It's him. They are looking for him!"

"Who is?" Altaïr asked, crouching beside him.

"I don't know. Because of the whole business tonight they think you're working together Quill – they're looking for you too." Just then the cuffs snapped off, and they helped him to his feet. After a quick potion, he was able to hobble towards the door with their aid.

The thief waiting outside took over supporting Brynjolf, and Quill quickly issued instructions.

"Take him to the Flagon; make sure you get a healer. Get everyone out. Now go!"

Altaïr was about to follow them out, when he realized she was going out a different door, he followed her hastily.

"Ah decided to tag along? I'd love to know who's been looking for me. They might just not be so glad that they actually got my attention."

He smirked at her confidence, and motioned for her to lead the way.

A few turns and twists later they stood before a split in the path, one going left the other right. Altaïr automatically started off towards the left.

"Hey," came the annoyed hiss behind him. "Where are you going?"

"It's this way," he whispered back.

"How would you know?" she bit back irritably, fully aware that she had no idea where she was going either. The place smelled far to foul for her nose to be any good – she tried taking a sniff now and again, but her nostrils revolted every time and she was forced to breathe through her mouth.

"It's this way."

"It's back there - - oh you know what, whatever," she muttered eventually, motioning for him to continue.

Eventually they saw the dimly lit silhouette of a door, and heard faint voices echoing towards them. Altaïr couldn't help but give her a smug little smile at being right. He heard her muttering something to the effects of "oh shut up".

Before entering the room, Quill dug silently into her pockets and came up with two potions. She mouthed "fifty seconds" before swallowing it down. Following her example, he watched in awe as she slowly disappeared – turning entirely invisible to his eyes. Using Eagle Vision he was just able to see her ghostly shape sneak into the room.

Three men stood around a table, all of them shrouded by shadows and hoods. Moving silently and invisibly, the two assassins soon stood right in the midst of the meeting, completely unseen. Altaïr grinned, imagining how much easier things would be in the real world if he had access to these kinds of potions.

"The thief was of little use. He has quite a high pain threshold, but given another few hours I am sure I can make him talk," a fat oily man said, he had a hood but his round cheeks pushed the cowl so far away his features were quite clearly distinguishable in such close proximity. Altaïr caugh a glimpse of Quill's faded expression, she bared her teeth at the vile man and it was clear she had a hard time keeping herself from lunging at him.

"No. This place is different from our own, we must be careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves. We will continue this charade as these "Emperial dignitaries" it will be quite a while till the real ones are missed. In the meantime, let the thief go, follow him to their hole and smoke the whole lot out." This was spoken by a tall figure, his features entirely hidden by the deep shadows around him, but his tone and accent sounded familiar to Altaïr, he was sure he had heard it before.

The third man didn't speak, but leaned toward the previous speaker and whispered into his ear.

"Ah, yes. Before you let the rat loose, get him to elaborate on the assassins in this world. I hear they are quite a different breed to the ones we're used to."

"As you wish," the first man, apparently the torturer, said.

Quill silently stepped further back into the shadows, clearly their potion's time was nearly finished. The two men left then, and the torturer remained behind, blowing out candles.

As the last candle vanished, Altaïr saw Quill move toward the remaining man, still using Eagle Vision to see, but he heard the shuffling of the torturer's feet and a tuneless hum on his lips, and the soft sound of light feet following the man. To his astonishment, Quill's blue image seemed to twist, it erraticcally leapt into a dim red light and eventually settling on a deep purple…

Quill waited for the candles to die, and without hesitation she went in for the kill. She smelled Altaïr behind her, his scent new and easy to pick out; she could also smell the smugness on the vile man as he was shuffling his way towards the door, groping the walls in the pitch dark, and she smelled Brynjolf's blood all over him. Where her nose had refused to work to her advantage earlier, adrenaline now had all her senses in over-drive.

Her urge to shift was almost unbearable, she felt her teeth lengthen involuntarily, and her nails extending into claws, but she somehow managed to keep the beast back before it completely took over. She was however functioning on automatic, driven by anger and hate.

In one leap she was on top of him, with a strangled cry of pain and surprise he fell forward. She tore through his clothes effortlessly with talon-like fingers, slashing his flesh, causing as much pain as she could before she bit his throat out. He uttered one last gurgle as he died. Looking back she could see Altaïr standing motionless gazing in the direction where she stood, dripping with blood she tried to recollect herself, suddenly feeling nauseous from the taste of blood in her mouth.

Wiping as much of the blood as she could with tatters of her victim's clothing from her face and mouth, she moved toward him, reaching out, meaning to guide him to the door. They needed to discuss what they heard, but she desperately didn't want to be in the same room as the torturer anymore. But as she neared him, he jerked back, stumbling over a rock. She caught his hand, and held him steady, but she could smell his confusion and distrust.

Altaïr heard inhuman sounds from the purple light in his vision, it was blurred and humanoid but continually straining as if trying to become something else. He heard the torturer's last anguished sounds, and saw his light fade. The other –thing- stood watching him, and then the color jumped again between red and blue, changing into a muddy color before resuming the normal friendly blue. It was the first time anything like that had happened. When Quill approached him, reaching toward him, he still felt momentarily paralyzed (a sensation he was not at all used to), he stepped back instinctively to avoid her, but found himself falling back.

Quill caught his arm, and with strength unlike her size, she pulled him upright.

There was no sign of the purple thing, and he let her lead him from the chamber. She moved as easily as if they were walking in daylight. His first thought was that he had somehow gone blind, that that was the reason for the strange vision, but soon the passage became lighter and he could make out her silhouette in front of him. As more things became visible, he pulled free from her hold, she didn't turn around, but merely pressed on.

When they reached a hidden exit, he paused.

She stopped too, but didn't face him.

"What happened in there?" he demanded.

"Nothing. I wasn't going to let that man anywhere near my guilds – any of them – ever again."

"What killed him?" he asked, and when she didn't respond he pulled her arm, forcing her to face him. He immediately let her go though, and drew back as he took in her blazing eyes and her blood soaked clothes – there was blood smears on her face too.

"I did," she bit back, turning and stalking off again.

With a feeling of ill ease, he followed, he still felt that he didn't have too much of a choice.

They reached the thieves, and Quill started readying herself to leave Riften. Altaïr had nothing to pack or organize, and as such had nothing to do but wait. He spent his time at the bar, sipping warm ale, and trying to regain the feeling in his feet. The cold seemed to seep into one's bones in that place. He daydreamed about the warm desert sky, and the coming spring.

He caught several fragments of conversation from the other thieves, all huddled in the Flagon, discussing recent events in whispers. He gathered that they all had a healthy respect for Quill, they called her a Nightingale among other things, but he didn't know what it meant. Brynjolf had apparently been part of the guild longer, but he was now Quill's right hand man there – he was in charge when she was away. Which it appeared was often.

With his fill of eaves dropping, he went in search of Quill, hoping to distract his racing mind, and hopefully gain some insight as to what happened to the torturer. He found her perched on the side of Brynjolf's bed. The man seemed to be recovering well, almost too well, considering.

"_This place and it's 'potions'_", Altaïr thought.

"Be careful lass, you don't know what you're dealing with. I know how to listen, and by the questions I was so politely asked, these people are not your average thugs," Altaïr heard the man speak in whispered tones. "They mean business, and not the kind that leaves all parties satisfied with coin in their pockets ..."

"Don't worry, you know me, I like floundering around in other peoples' messes, keeps me busy. Hopefully they will leave Riften when I do, but you'd better have the guild in lock down for a while." Although at the beginning of her statement she sounded a bit like a child reassuring a parent, by the end there was no mistake that she had given a direct order, and she expected it to be obeyed.

"Don't worry about us either, lass," Brynjolf said with a smile. "We know how to disappear."

"Good. I will make contact when I can. Be safe, my friend." And with that she rose and left, passing Altaïr wordlessly. She had no more than a small pack around her waist, and she was donning an impressive set of new armor. The previous had been much more plain, black and brown leather with a red hand symbol on the chest.

This set was pitch black leather, with scaled detailing on the chest and bracers, and a deep cowl that hid her face entirely, leaving only her eyes to glimmer in the black depths. They left through a different path, and came out in the graveyard – where Altaïr had run into her the first evening – he suddenly wondered how long he had been there. Spending so much time underground has left him unable to tell whether it was early morning or late afternoon.

She slipped one of the guards at the gate some coin before heading to the stables.

"I assume you don't have a mount?" she asked him, the first words they had spoken in hours.

"You assume correct."

"But you can ride, yes?"

"Yes," he assured her.

Altaïr was confused though, for he saw no horses in the paddock. She made a clicking noise, and a big black horse stepped forward from the shadows of the stable, with smoldering red eyes it regarded him coolly.

"We will stop in Whiterun, it is a day and a half's hard ride from here so we should arrive tomorrow late afternoon. I will pick up my other horse there."

"And until there? I hope you do not suggest I run?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, no," she chuckled. "Shadowmere, meet Altaïr – he's an assassin too, treat him as you would me. Altaïr, Shadowmere will carry you. Treat this horse with respect, it is no mere animal. Shadowmere is one of us." And with that the horse neared him and sniffed his face quite gently. He rose into the saddle and found the horse exceptionally comfortable; it was like the animal could read his mind. He would still be thinking of going left, and the horse would already have started turning; he wanted to increase speed, and the horse obliged immediately, so smoothly it was uncanny.

Quill had meanwhile entered the barn a brought a rather wide-eyed dappled grey out. It was only then that Altaïr saw the other horses huddled together nervously in the back corner. The guard that had received the coin was animatedly telling his companion about the fish he had caught the previous day, turning the man's back to the stables. Quill quickly mounted, and without hesitation, spurred her mount into a trot, as they moved quickly out of sight gates.

"Let me guess, not your horse?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. And neither will the guard at the gate when he's asked," she replied with a sly smile.

He couldn't help but smile. In the mild midday sky, with birds overhead and the sun on his back, he could almost forget about the myriad of questions he had about Quill's assassins and her method of dispatching of that man. She seemed entirely at ease there, like any carefree traveller one might meet on the road. A stark contrast to the determined, ruthless killer he had suspected her of being a few hours before.

"Feel free to sleep if you are tired. Shadowmere won't let you fall," she said.

"I'm not sure I understand?"

"If that horse does not want you on its back, no matter how good a rider you are, you will not stay on more than a heartbeat. But if you are accepted, you shall not fall, no matter what."

"_What_ exactly am I riding on?" he asked, a little uncertainly. His mount gave a funny whinny that sounded an awful lot like a laugh. "You said the horse is 'one of us' – as in an assassin?"

"Something like that, I'm not too sure myself. Shadowmere has been the steed of the leader of the Brotherhood since before modern history; and was the mount of the legendary Lucien LeChance, and those before him too."

"LeChance…? that's you're most legendary assassin's name? We don't really have that many we retell legends about."

"You could meet him, if you'd like?"

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, maybe another day," she said hurriedly. "I think you have had enough strange encounters for a while."

"That makes me in part more curious and a lot more nervous…"

"Do not fret, I will see no harm befall you," Quill quipped, laughing. Altaïr chuckled too, forgetting momentarily his misgivings and purely enjoying her easy nature and the idea that she thought he needed protection.

"What gives you the idea I need any help protecting myself?"

"Well, you might be an exceptional fighter, but you were nearly killed by the guards on your first evening. Now that's just plain insulting to any self-respecting assassin."

"Fair enough," he replied with a small smile as they continued a leisurely pace along the tree line road.


	4. On Route to Whiterun

Altaïr didn't even notice it, but he did fall asleep. Shadowmere was as comfortable as sleeping on a bed, and true to Quill's word, he didn't fall from the saddle. When he woke partially some time during the night, the stars were shining brightly, the evening was clear and crisp, an icy breeze singing mournfully between the trees. He thought he heard a soft, low hum drifting quietly on the wind, but the rhythmical clip-clop of the horses' hooves almost drummed it out. He drifted back into sleep.

Quill was glad that he managed to fall asleep; he looked tired and slightly bewildered to her. It must be a lot to take in, a new place, one apparently so different from his own. No healing potions? That was absurd! Then they would also not have magic. That would have to be a shock for another day. On the whole he did appear to be taking everything better than one would have expected. She guessed very few things ever took him by surprise.

"How in Oblivion did you get here, and from where?" she asked her sleeping companion quietly. "How will you get home, for surely that is what you wish?" Shadowmere gave a soft nicker. "I don't know quite what to make of him either," she replied.

She wondered if he saw what happened in the dungeon – how nearly she had shifted into a barely controllable hairy beast. She was sure that he suspected something – he had been even more stand-offish since then. But it was so dark, even if he could see anything, he would surely not have been able to see enough to realize what was happening. A few times she had been sure he would broach the subject, but thus far he had not. She would have to answer his questions at some point. She had no idea how to break that particular bit of news to him.

"Why yes, in addition to magic, ghosts and potions, we have werewolves – and, surprise! I'm one of them! But don't worry I'll only rip you to shreds if you really annoy me… yeah that would go down great…" she muttered.

A group of darkly cloaked figures blocked the path ahead. Quill couldn't make out who or what they were, but she told Shadowmere to remain a few paces back. Reigning in her mount, she stood facing them, and counted twelve hoods. "_Not too bad odds_," she thought.

"You may go human, just give us the one on the black horse," one of the figures sneered. He was larger than the others, and his cloak was covered in intricate patterns in red.

"And what do you wish with him?" she replied. Her mount tried backing away for the figures, throwing its head and snorting. Altaïr had meanwhile been shaken awake by Shadowmere's fidgeting.

"That is none of your concern," the man replied. "Give him to us, and we will let you go."

"Oh, how very kind of you. But I really must decline."

"You don't know what has brought him here, the danger he carries. We have allied with people that know how to handle it. You, little girl, do not."

"And I should trust you and your 'new allies' and more than my own? Not likey," she laughed.

Quill drew her blade, and lay it across her lap as her mount continued to become increasingly restless.

One of the figures disappeared momentarily, only to reappear next the Quill, jerking her from the saddle. She had enough sense to swipe her drawn blade towards the figure as she fell to the ground. She heard his surprised gasp as her clumsy move actually managed to slit his throat. He hit the ground the same time she did. Her already panicked mount took the opportunity to bolt.

Three other figures were immediately around Quill, as she regained her footing, and drew her other sword.

At the merest thought from Altaïr, Shadowmere was at a gallop towards the fight. With his hidden blade extended, he leapt from the horse's back taking down one of the cloaked figures before they could even register he was there.

Quill had felled the other two closest to her, when the large figure making all the demands approached her, a glowing summoned sword in his hand. She was quick to side step his broad sweep, but one of the fallen figures was apparently not quite dead yet, and using the last of his strength he grabbed hold of her ankle. Suddenly unbalanced, she fell back, winding herself on the hard road.

With a heavily armored boot, the large man stepped hard onto her left hand audibly crushing the bones. She let out a scream of pain, and even realizing the futility, brought the hilt of her right hand sword down on his foot. The man laughed at her efforts, and lifted his sword above her chest.

Altaïr had quickly dispatched the other attackers with fair ease, and was making his way quickly to Quill's aid, but even as he rushed to stop the fall of the blade, he already knew he'd be too slow.

Quill forced herself to think and breathe through the screaming pain from her hand, clearing her mind, she called the spirits of the dragons and rend the air with her voice.

"Fus Ro Dah!"

The shout hit her target squarely, as he drove the sword down. The blade, luckily now slightly off target, pinned her to the ground through her shoulder. The man had however not been flung away from her as she had expected – he vanished into thin air. Soon after the summoned sword disappeared too, leaving Quill groaning in pain on the ground.

"What in the seven hells was that…" Altaïr began, but seeing her rather frantic, rather unsuccessful attempts to search into her bag, he dug out few bottles, trying to guess which would be a healing potion. The bag looked like no more than a pouch on her left side, but the more he dug the more items he found inside, things that really should not possibly fit in there. With eyes glazed over in pain, she finally saw him take out something she could use and eagerly motioned towards the big red bottle in his hand.

She gulped it down, but remained on her back cradling her left hand and waiting for the potion to literally do its magic. After a few moments she opened her eyes, frowning deeply. Altaïr watched as she cautiously tried to open and close her hand. She let out a startled cry and tenderly took the offending hand in the other.

"What in Oblivion did I drink," she groaned. "Stupid cure poison that always look like health potions to me!" But on examining the empty bottle again, even sniffing the rim, she looked even more startled.

Waving her hand at Altaïr, he helped her up into a sitting position.

"What's the matter?" he asked as she continued to mutter to herself.

"I don't understand," she said peering at the still gaping wound in her shoulder. "It is better, but it's not fixed. That is a potent healing potion, and it should have healed this right up…"

"Perhaps the wound is just worse than you thought?"

"Yeah, I guess."

She fashioned a haphazard sling to support her broken hand and take the load off her injured shoulder.

"Well, I guess we'll walk from here, it's not too far to Whiterun," she said after seeing no sign of her stolen mount. Before departing though, she rummaged through the corpses, but finding nothing more than coin, she seemed disappointed.

"What were you hoping for?"

"The idiots sometimes carry missives. But apparently these were slightly smarter than that."

Altaïr followed her as she continued down the road, Shadowmere following loyally behind. He was trying to think of a way to word his next question, because what he saw really hadn't made sense.

"What did you do when you shouted at that man? I was not close by, but it felt like some unseen force was pushing outward. Like a strong wind."

"Oh. That. It is called a Thu'um, a dragon shout," she replied, looking slightly embarrassed.

"But you just - what? shouted at him?"

"Basically yes. How do I explain it? It's like you use your inner force through your voice to affect the outside world. It can be quite powerful."

"Can you teach it someone else?" he continued curiously.

"It has been taught to others, the Greybeards do that. But I don't know how to teach someone else, no one ever taught me. I just know how to do it." He looked slightly disappointed at her answer.

He noticed her face was becoming increasingly pale, and she stumbled every once in a while.

"What else can it do?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Quite a bit more," she said smiling. "That one was called 'unrelenting force'. There's a fire shout, and an ice shout. There's even one that can make wild animals your ally. But I don't know them all yet, and some I only know fragments of."

"Could you do another?"

"Very well. Mmmm, which one… Oh how about this one!" she said after some thought.

She drew a deep breath, and her voice tore through the sky, impossibly loud.

The clouds that had gathered through the night suddenly swirled and rolled away, as if a strong wind had pushed them aside, revealing twin moons in a night sky streaked in colors of blues and purples.

"Was that you?" he asked in astonishment. She raised her brows and gave him a cocky lopsided smirk. " That's… unbelievable…"

Quill stumbled again, and her legs started giving way underneath her, but Altaïr's quick hand steadied her.

"Sorry, I'm a little out of it tonight it would seem," she said, trying to pull herself together.

They continued in silence, but their initially brisk pace gradually slowed to a near crawl.

"_Malik will never believe any of this_", Altaïr thought. But then, he didn't really believe it himself. Had he not already decided that this was all some kind of illusion created by The Apple?

Quill was using her right arm to keep herself upright, by holding onto Shadowmere's saddle. Eventually she just stopped, breathing hard and feeling faint. This was a most unwelcome experience for her, she felt too tired to take one more step. She was sure that her shattered shoulder blade had mended, because that sharp pain had subsided, but the wound still bled continuously.

"Should we rest before continuing?" Altaïr asked. He was actually quite amazed at how far she had walked, with that amount of blood loss most people would have been passed out long ago.

"No no, we should push on. But I do think I will make use of the horse, and now I _am_ suggesting you take the rest of the way on foot," she said.

After two false starts to get into the saddle, the black horse bent down on its knees to make things easier for its mistress. She patted his neck when she managed to get on.

Pointing towards a well-lit hill in the distance, "That's Whiterun. It's not that far," she said. It wasn't long before her head slumped forward, and she gave up the fight against sleep. Shadowmere kept a steady walking pace in the direction of the city. By the time they reached the stables outside the gates it was already early dawn.

Quill half fell from the saddle, looking embarrassed by her rather inelegant dismount. She flicked a gold piece to the stable boy that approached, the boy eagerly caught it smiling happily.

"Oh thank you, my Thane!" the boy said as he lead Shadowmere to the water.

Quill gave the boy a half sad smile, and slowly started on the winding path up to the city gate.

"I hope you don't mind," she said to her travelling companion. "But I thought we might get something decent to eat and perhaps a few hours of sleep in a real bed."

"As you like," he replied. "So what did you bribe the stable boy for?"

She shook her head. Quill felt vaguely offended by his assumption, but tried to explain.

"He's an orphan. He works in return for nothing more than a crust of bread and a spot to sleep in the hay loft. I always give him something for taking care of my horses."

Altaïr followed her wordlessly into the city.


	5. The Companions

Her house in Whiterun had only room for herself and her house-carl, Lydia, so Quill decided to head towards Jorrvaskr instead - there was always extra beds. The great hall of the Companions was a buzz of activity as always, a big fire burning merrily in the center of the room and several of the companions kept themselves occupied with food, drink and chatter.

Farkas was the first to notice Quill, and in his usual good humor greeted her.

"Quill, I was just wondering when you'd come wandering by again," he said happily. "I was just trying to tell one of the new prospects about your test fight against my brother. But he doesn't believe me!"

"Oh, and why is that?" she asked, smiling tiredly. She wanted nothing more than a bed – truth be told, she still felt exceedingly weak. If it continued like that she would need to find a healer.

"Well, he's heard all the tales about you – and refuses to believe that Vilkas managed to knock you down."

"The tales are greatly exaggerated. And knocking me down is hardly a challenge for a skilled fighter like Vilkas," she said to the wide eyed young man, feeling annoyed by a slight reddening in her cheeks.

"Weeeell," Farkas interjected, "you did give him a run for his money, it's not like you were an easy opponent – even then. What happened to your arm?"

She waved him off - too tired to get involved in one of their usual banters.

"I'm fine, I just really need some sleep," she said. "Farkas, this is Altaïr, please see that he gets something to eat and drink, or a bed if he wishes it."

"Make yourself at home, I… am really tired," she said, turning to Altaïr. The room was spinning, and before she realized what was happening, she was lying face down on the floor, out as a light.

The entire hall went dead quiet. All eyes were alternately on the prostrate form on the floor, and then on Altaïr.

One of the men bent down beside her, and with gentleness belying his size turned her on her side. He first thought it was the man she had been talking to – Farkas - but he noticed this one's armor was different. Looking up he saw Farkas was still standing near the table, the two men looked identical.

"Wow, when last did she sleep?" Farkas said awkwardly.

The other man, picked Quill up. She was as limp as a ragdoll, but breathing steadily. "I'll take her down to her room," he said as he left the hall. The rest of the room continued with their previous occupations, and the tenseness eased out of the room.

"Come, have a seat – or are you likely to pass out as well?" Farkas asked Altaïr.

"No, I am fine. I think she's still suffering from blood-loss", he replied, looking at a few drops of blood on the floor where she fell.

"Blood-loss? Didn't she drink a potion?"

"Yes, but she said it wasn't working."

"That's odd. Perhaps she drank a cure poison instead? She's always getting the two confused – it's quite funny actually."

Altaïr took a seat neat the chatty twin, as he was starting to think of him. The man was every bit as hospitable as Quill had instructed him, and soon Altaïr had a plate heaped with bread, cheeses and meats, and a tankard full of ale in front of him.

"Where am I, exactly?" Altaïr asked motioning around the room. He didn't think these people were assassins, and Quill hadn't exactly been forthcoming with information before she passed out. He wondered if she'd be alright after some rest. He also wondered why the potions that had initially amazed him so, were not working like they apparently should have.

"This is Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions."

"What are the Companions?"

"You don't know? Alright, we're a group of warriors. You'd have to be quite good with a weapon to join, but that's about all there's to it."

Well he was right, definitely not assassins.

"And this test you were talking about – is that how you are judged as a worthy warrior?"

"Yes – interested in trying out?"

"Not just yet, thank you. I was more curious about what you were telling that young man about Quill's trial. If you don't mind?"

"Oh, yes, I haven't actually gotten to the story yet," he said, apparently happy for the reminder. The youth to whom he would have told the story initially, had however wandered off, but it didn't hinder Farkas.

"How long ago was this?"

"Not so long, better part of two years. She started here a starved out thing on the run from something – many of the companions were before they came here. Everyone gave her scrawny frame one look and though she wouldn't last the first job she was given. Vilkas – my brother - had such an argument with Kodlac about her! He was to test her in battle, and he near refused to fight such a starved wisp, too afraid he might accidentally kill her" here Farkas interrupted himself laughing at the memory.

"We all gathered to watch of course. Vilkas would never have done serious harm to her purposefully, you see. He's not spiteful, but he was tasked to make sure she could handle herself. He was in such a foul mood all morning, but Kodlac insisted. In the end, he was definitely the one that got the surprise!"

"How so?" Altaïr encouraged him.

"Well, my brother is a big guy, he likes his big armor and two handed swords – here she comes out of the building, dressed in simple leather armor, two short swords strapped to her back. His face absolutely fell at the sight, but fight he had to fight. His first mistake was not watching her. She clearly didn't have too much in the line of formal training, but she has instinct, by the bucket-loads. His first half-hearted swing missed her entirely – well it was exactly where she had been standing, only she wasn't standing there anymore. She was behind him, and she neatly blocked the back swing he sent her way. The force did knock her to the ground but she rolled out from underneath the next swing and kicked his one leg out from underneath him. With him unsettled she casually went up behind him and placed her blade against his neck.

"Now anyone else might have yielded – the test was over, but my brother was having far too much fun, and he was embarrassed to have misjudged her so badly. He wouldn't admit it, of course, to this day he swears he wasn't grinning but grimacing. In the end he did knock her over, she hadn't eaten a decent meal in months after all, so she couldn't match his stamina. But I heard him congratulate her on a good fight as he helped her up – something he has never done before, that I can promise you! She earned his respect that day, and that's a hard thing to do."

"Sounds like quite an impressive fight. Who is this Kodlac?"

"Oh… he was the previous Harbinger. He… was killed about a year ago, and he left the title to her. She had proven herself time and time again by that stage, earned the respect and loyalty of everyone. She's a good friend to have," he said.

"Harbinger – is that like your leader?" So she was leader of the Thieves guild, the Assassin's guild and a guild of warriors. Talk about diversifying.

"Mmm, sort of. Not really. It's complicated. We don't really have a leader as such, but that would be the closest thing to a leader, I guess," Farkas said after a moment's thought. "You should ask my brother. He's much more the one for the history books."

The man in question –Vilkas - had reappeared, and was sitting quietly to the one side of the room, a tankard and open book in front of him. He wasn't reading though – his eyes were fixed on Altaïr.

Altaïr in turn, gave the man a passing glance and turned back to his late breakfast.

Once done, he had Farkas show him to a room. Although not really tired, he was tired of the boisterous company in the common room. The rooms were below the hall, and he was shown into a tiny alcove that held little more than a narrow bed and a tiny table covered in books.

Picking up the one on the top, he let his finger trace over the gold embossed title. Alduin.

He scanned the first few lines, but soon became entirely engrossed in the book – a legend, surely, about a dragon that enslaved all humanity, but was destroyed. He was however not conquered; he would reappear in the future and attempt dominion again. The only hope being something called a Dovahkiin. Scribbled along the margins of the pages were notes in a neat hand.

After a long while Altaïr became aware of someone in the door way. It was the bad tempered twin. Vilkas stood a long moment in silence before speaking.

"We have arranged for a healer to come see Quill. He is with her now. Since you came here with her, Farkas thought you would like to know."

Altaïr looked at the man in confusion. "Wouldn't another potion be a faster solution?"

"It would - if they were working. The strongest potion barely knits the skin together." What Altaïr had assumed was arrogance; he now started to read as concern.

"Could I go see her?" he asked.

Vilkas nodded once, and led the way out. It was only a few doors down, but when they came to the door – before even knocking they heard a commotion from inside. Propriety out the door, the two fairly pushed past each other to get into the room.

Quill was perched precariously on the headboard of the bed, growling.

By the side of the bed, trying to coax her down, was a tiny little bald man.

"Uh-oh," Vlikas commented.

She was breathing hard, her lips pulled back into a snarl. Her teeth had lengthened into fangs, her fingers were razor sharp claws, the left held protectively against her chest, and her irises were encircled in a golden sheen.

Altaïr drew in a sharp breath – suddenly understanding what had happened that night to the torturer. He looked to Vilkas and the healer, wide eyed, but they seemed entirely unfazed.

Quill's face visibly fell when she saw Altaïr. She stopped growling, and sulkily got down next to the healer.

"There, there dear," the old man reassured her. "Half way done – I know it hurt to unclench your fist, but we can't stop now, can we?"

"No," she said staring at the ground, her teeth and hands gradually returning to normal, but the glow in her eyes was still there.

"It's healing all wrong, I need to re-set it," the healer continued to explain in a calm voice. And then turning to the two men, "Thank you boys, I would suggest you leave for this."

They waited in a small library adjacent to Quill's room. They could quite clearly hear her muffled whimpers and a lot of swearing as the healer had to re-break her hand to set it correctly.

Altaïr sat with his elbows resting on the table, mulling over what he had just seen, when Vilkas interrupted his thoughts.

"You didn't know, did you? That she's a werewolf," he asked.

"No. Well, I knew there was something she was hiding. But I hadn't really made the connection, no. Is she dangerous?"

To his surprise the other man laughed.

"Yes of course. But not because she's a werewolf. She's just stronger and faster when she's a wolf. She has quite a number of tricks up her sleeve. Trust me, don't underestimate her. She handles the beast blood better than most; it just sometimes comes out as a coping mechanism I think. And what you saw in there, that was not a werewolf. She was holding it back; the fangs and nails are usually just the bits that slip through."

Altaïr felt slightly more at ease, but he didn't share the man's unconcerned view entirely.

Momentarily the door opened to reveal the old man.

"I'll tell you, I've not had to reset a broken bone for many, many years," the man said, shaking his head. "She's sleeping again, but I don't know why the potions have lost so much of their effectiveness on her. I've taken a few bottles, and will check their composition, but I don't think there is anything wrong with the potions…"

"Thank you for coming," Vilkas said, leading the man through the door.

"Of course, of course. Keep out of trouble, eh?" he replied, and then to Altaïr: "Hail Sithis and all that."

The two disappeared down the corridor, leaving Altaïr alone in the tiny library.


	6. A Slight Disagreement

Malik would laugh at him, he knew. It was the first time he had a chance to really think about those he had back home. Did they know he was gone, did they search for him? Malik would find it very enjoyable that Altaïr was so out of his depth in this place. He had never really relied on anyone – sure he relied on Malik and the other assassins, but he needed her to fundamentally explain her world, to keep him from making a fatal move, that might have been entirely safe in his own.

He did find it ironic that the only person he has come to even vaguely trust – turned out to be a shape shifting assassin. It did sound insane.

With no desire for rest, or the company he knew he would find up stairs, he settled into a chair and resumed reading the book about Alduin. There was an illustration of a heavily armor warrior – the so called Dovahkiin – leading scores of men in a battle against the dragon. The next page depicted the warrior shouting at the big black dragon.

Placing the book on his lap, he thought back to Quill's explanation of the shouts. The place made less and less sense to him. They use the words 'magic' and 'potion' as readily and normally as he and Malik would use the word 'sand' or 'sword'. As far as illusions went – 'Skyrim' was something not even the most gifted daydreamer would conjure, he thought.

Despite not being tired, he must have fallen asleep, for a loud crashing sound shook him rudely awake. His eyes flew to the closed door immediately.

Entering with caution, suddenly skeptical about what he might find on the other side, his initial trepidation gave way to exasperation.

Quill was half propped up against a low chest, her entire body shaking with the effort to remain upright.

"What are you doing up?" he asked, sternly but not unkindly. She didn't speak, but merely let him help her to her feet, after which she abruptly collapsed into his arms. Taking care he placed her back on the bed, but her right hand retained a firm grip on his sleeve.

"May Talos have mercy and just end my misery – my shoulder is killing me. Do your people stay indoors always – to avoid getting hurt?" she asked softly.

He smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed. "No, my, 'people' as you put it, don't just stay inside. But also, we are not entirely unaccustomed to injury, and accept the pain as it is, it is just another fact of life. Honestly, I've seen people succumb to lesser wounds than this… You lost a lot of blood."

"Tell me about Masyaf," she interrupted him, shaking her head, as if not wanting to talk about injuries. He smiled at her odd pronunciation, but was impressed that she had actually remembered it.

"Well, it is a lot warmer. And there is a lot more sand – it's partly desert, and might look barren to some, but if you know it, you see life everywhere. A few hardy plants even mange to flower in spring. To the far western horizon the ocean lies blue under the endless sky, it looks almost as if the boats sail off into the sky itself."

She smiled weakly at his description. "Sounds nice."

She was wearing a linen tunic at least three sizes too big for her, and as such the wide neckline revealed the bandage of her injured shoulder. The wound was still bleeding through.

"How many stitches did it take?" he asked, nodding towards the shoulder.

"None. It's just a bandage. The healer thought it might start healing from the potions soon. Still hurts like a bitch tough," she said.

"That would take weeks to heal on its own. It will need stitches."

Peeking beneath the bandage she frowned.

"I… I don't know how to do stitches. I've never had to – on a person, I mean," she said sheepishly.

"If you have a needle and thread, I could do it for you?" he offered.

After moment's thought she nodded and directed him to the house mistress for the needed supplies.

He reentered the room to see Quill down a bottle of wine. He noted there was another empty one on the table. She shrugged at his expression.

After removing the bandage and pulling the collar as far back as it would go, she turned her head and squeezed her eyes shut, opening one momentarily to glance in his direction as he threated the needle.

"It's not that bad. It hurts, but it will help your shoulder heal," he tried reassuring her. But couldn't stop himself from adding, just before bringing the needle to her skin – "You won't bite me, will you?"

She snorted and replied with a grin, "No. I promise I won't."

"Ok good," he said as he started on the first stitch. She jerked slightly at the first prick of the needle, but sat quietly after that.

"I'm sorry you had to find out like that," she said, even braving a momentary peek at him working. "I wasn't sure how you'd react."

"In all honesty, I'm not sure I've fully realized it yet. It helped that the others here. Their reactions helped curb mine – which admittedly might have been different had I been alone."

A few minutes later he sat back after cutting the last thread. She peered at both sides of her shoulder critically.

"Not bad," she remarked. "Will it leave a scar?"

"Perhaps. But if it heals well it would be very faint. I suppose healing potions don't leave scars?"

"No. They patch you right up. Like magic!" she said brightly.

"How'd you get the scratches on your cheek?" He asked on a whim, noticing for the first time that she must have washed her standard face paint off.

She absent-mindedly traced the three scars with one finger. "I was a foolish child. I had a run in with a young saber cat. I did manage to kill it – but it left its mark too."

Altaïr left to return the needle and thread, but on returning he found her a sleep. Closing the door quietly, he once again took a seat and tried to continue with the book. After a while he gave up, finding it couldn't hold his interest.

He was becoming fascinated by her – she seemed like a strange new creature to him – similar, and yet different enough to be interesting, like an ornithologist discovering a new sub-species of a familiar bird. He realized that even though he now knew about the werewolf bit, she still appeared as if she was hiding things, and he found himself curious as to what those might be.

It must have been early evening when Farkas came strolling in.

"How is she?" he asked, taking the chair on the opposite side of the table.

"I think alright, she's sleeping. She did try to get up a few hours back, probably did more damage than anything else," he replied, shaking his head.

He was surprised to see Farkas grinning at this.

"Nah, she'll be fine. She's hard headed to a fault. If she was trying to get around on her own, she'll be fine. A damned fool, but fine."

Altaïr declined Farkas' invitation to help himself to dinner up stairs, instead rather opting to get some rest himself.

The following morning Altaïr was surprised to be woken up by Quill.

"Is something the matter?" he asked automatically.

"Yes! Something is wrong," she nearly wailed. He noted that she was half-way into her armor. The close fitting pants and knee-high boots she had managed to get on, but she was clutching her chest piece waving it slightly at him. The light woven shirt she wore was a stark contrast to the black of the leather armor.

"Why are you even up?" he asked her.

"I'm bored," she said simply.

He blinked a few times, rubbing his eyes, before getting up.

Her face lit up, and she thrust the offending garment hopefully in his direction.

Altaïr would have none of it though. He casually walked over to her, and lifting her fairly easy, carried her back to her room over his shoulder. He couldn't help but smirk as he heard her give a warning growl.

"What in Oblivion!" she began as he deposited her in her room.

"Stay in bed," he said as he turned and left. She followed him to the door, trying to smother her irritation.

"I am leaving, you may come if you do not continue to annoy me…" but she was cut short as he closed the door in her face. To add insult to injury, she heard the key turn. Her blood boiled, but taking deep breathes she managed to calm slightly.

"Bloody stubborn woman," Altaïr muttered as he returned to his room, still feeling the call of sleep.

He stopped short at the door, surprised to see Quill, lounging on the bed, giving him a wolfish grin.

"I can pick locks," she said simply. Her grin disappeared as she continued coolly.

"Let's try this again. What is your problem?" she hissed through her teeth.

Altaïr sighed.

"My _problem_ is, that you are not used to stitches. Stitches aren't magic. It takes time. If you move around too much you will rip the stitches out. Other than being uncomfortable and worsening your chances of getting a really bad scar, the wound can become infected and kill you." He nearly ground the words out.

They stared levelly at each other for a while.

Without a word she flung the chest piece over her shoulder and left.

He stared after her until he heard her door close.

Shaking his head in disbelief he got back into bed.

Stubborn, pushy woman.


	7. Let's Find Us a Dragon

Two days later, Altaïr had become restless. He hadn't seen Quill since their disagreement. He thought that he might have acted differently, but he was just so exasperated by her stubborn intent, and he meant it for her own good.

He thought about issuing an order of bed rest to any sick person back home, let alone a woman that had the equivalent of a carving knife through her shoulder, the order would not actually be necessary – the person would readily accept rest. On that thought, most women would not find themselves in the position for receiving such an injury under normal circumstances, he guessed. Well, there was that Templar woman – she might be likely to get a similar injury, but again, only because she was more often in dangerous situations. Stubborn women.

He wondered what he would do if she just abandoned him there. Well, he knew what he would do of course, he would continue trying to find out why he was there and how to get back. But, he wasn't sure where to begin. Some place he could buy a map might be a good start…

He was standing outside watching a few of the new recruits sparring with Vilkas as he suddenly became aware of someone next to him; their approach had been entirely silent.

Quill stood, fully armored in black, and watched the sparring a moment, her face stern, but the hard look in her eyes was what really struck him.

"Altaïr, let me make something exceedingly clear," she said very quietly. "I had made up my mind to assist you in any way that I could, even before we left Riften. I realize you may be used to having your orders obeyed immediately and without question at home. But remember you are here, not home. I strongly advise you to not try that with me again."

They stood in silence again.

"I realize my methods might not have been the best approach," he replied eventually after a sigh. "And while I will apologize for the method, I was trying to give you advice. Not having magic to heal you is the one area in this world where I can confidently offer you that advice. And I maintain that I was right."

She gave him a side-ways look and snorted. "Not much of an apology, but fine. And, yes, you were right – insufferable - but right. My shoulder was still a nightmare the last two days."

"And you're telling me its fine now?" he asked skeptically.

"It is almost as good as new," she said, rolling her left shoulder as if to demonstrate. "I'm heading out to the market, if you're interested to get out for a while."

He followed her about town as she bartered with merchants, strolled the streets, and mostly just looked happy to be in the open air.

Taking a break, Quill had them sitting under a big flowering tree, a priest ministering loudly a short distance away.

"It's good to be in the open air," she breathed, raising her head to the sun in the dappled shade of the tree.

"I've been meaning to ask you something since that night on the road. Why didn't you just give me over to those people? It would have been very easy to do; I was, after all, asleep."

She gave him an odd look. "Indeed. It would have been easier, but easy and right are often not the same thing."

"True, but really, you should have let them take me," he insisted.

"Oh? And how do you suppose that would have ended?"

"They would have taken me to the person or people I am looking for, and I would have at least known who that was then."

"Not likely," she said matter-of-factly. "You were more likely to have woken up half way through a torturing rack, the person you're hunting laughing over your dismay. Probably in possession of whatever you are trying so hard to keep secretly hidden." She didn't look at him, but she smiled, almost feeling his shocked expression.

After a brief pause she added – "You don't need to tell me what it is. Besides if I don't know, that's plausible deniability when they eventually capture me and try to get information from me." This surprised Altaïr – most people would have demanded to know what they were after, and somehow she seemed to take this all rather lightheartedly.

"Thank you for not pressing the matter," he said. "I must admit, I was almost surprised when you didn't just hand me over, I guess I just assumed you would."

She shrugged. "Think nothing of it. So what do you think of Skyrim so far?"

"Well, it is cold," he said with an involuntary shiver, his clothing not really suited to keep heat in – at least the hall of the Companions was warm. "But the people seem nice enough so far, the Companions, since that's all I've really had contact with. I am still skeptical about all this magic and shouts and werewolves and dragons – where I come from, all magic is only an illusion. It is not real. And all these legends – it sounds like people really believe it."

"Of course we do. How could one not? Stories don't burn villages to the ground."

"Really? Isn't it a trick – someone wipes out a village, burns it to the ground, and says a dragon did it. He's free without any retribution," he insisted.

"No, trust me – I've seen a one or two."

"What about that book – about the black dragon?" he was taken aback by the way her face blanched as he mentioned this. "The end of the world – but isn't it just a metaphor, a story of warning?" he pressed.

"I really hope it is, but unfortunately I doubt it," she said, raising suddenly. "Come, let's go have something to eat at the Bannered Mare – I really don't feel like roast again tonight."

On their way there they stopped at a general goods store. The owner seemed overjoyed to see Quill, and while they spoke of news and such, Altaïr was inspecting some of the stranger items on sale.

"_Was that really a giant's toe?_" he wondered, slightly horrified.

Something heavy and furry suddenly landed on his shoulders, and Quill came around from behind to fastened the cloak with a silver clasp. It was a thick woven cloak of white thread with a tick white fur collar.

"You'll catch your death otherwise," she said, giving a satisfied nod.

He was still wondering how to respond, what he owed her for the fine garment, but realizing he had nothing that would bear value to her in Skyrim, he merely said "Thank you."

The cloak made a world of difference, the cool afternoon air was decidedly less sharp as they left the shop, and Altaïr noticed a slight blue glimmer on the cloth when the light caught it just right.

They found the twins and a woman from the Companions – Aela - in the Bannered Mare as well, all fairly well aled by that time. They were arguing about a commission they had received.

"I am telling you two dullards, I am not setting a foot near that place without her! Have you seen incinerated remains recently? I do not want to try it for myself!" Alea said, taking a swig from her mug.

"I've gone with her a few times, you just need to stay out of the direct line of the fire," Farkas said.

"How do you propose to get the thing on the ground?" Vilkas asked his brother more quietly.

"Ah here's the woman in question!" Alea said as she spotted Quill. "How does one, exactly, get a dragon on the ground, to kill it?" she asked, ever so slightly slurred.

"Oh, that's easy," Quill replied, taking a seat. "You let me do it."

"No, absolutely not. Alea…" Vilkas said warningly.

"Why? Dragon problem?"

"Only the usual terrified village petition," Farkas said, ordering another round, and ale for Quill and Altaïr.

"Farkas! No, are you carzy?" But Farkas ignored his brother.

"If you could just get the thing on the ground, we – Alea and I," he said, giving Alea a friendly slap on the arm, which caused her to spill her ale and swear at him, "we will kill it." He finished triumphantly.

Vilkas dropped his head in his hand, shaking it in dismay. He was clearly not impressed with the idea of sending Quill off into danger quite so soon.

Quill gave a lopsided shrug. "Where's this dragon of yours?"

"Farkas- -" "Near the old fort close to Winterhold… oh…"

"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it," she said draining her tankard and rising.

"Quill, be sensible…" Vilkas urged.

"Eh, he'll help," she responded, jerking a thumb in Altaïr's direction, and then to him: "Want to see a dragon?"

Altaïr was sure he heard the man groan as they left. Quill seemed in a particularly good mood as they made their way down to the stables.

Shadowmere stood in a corner chewing when they approached. The horse whinnied happily when it saw Quill. She patted its neck as she walked over to a glossy palomino nearby. Altaïr rubbed Shadowmere's forehead when the horse approached him, and with some confusion pulled a chicken feather from its mouth – which Shadowmere promptly snatched back and swallowed.

"This actually your horse?" he asked jokingly.

"Technically," she replied. "His name is Frost. I have his papers and everything."

He smiled – she could hardly have sounded more suspicious if she tried. He did find out later that she basically blackmailed the horse's ownership out of someone else; he found it rather amusing all the same.

"Are we really going to slay a dragon?" he asked eventually.

"Oh yes."

"On an unrelated topic, but one I feel is equally important - how exactly do you plan find out who we are looking for, or who is looking for us – by now they are definitely after you too." Altaïr asked after a momentary silence.

"I think we need to stop by the College of Mages, in Winterhold – close to where we're going to find our dragon. They might know of any noteworthy artifacts that these people might be looking for. And once we know what they are searching for, we can get a better idea of where to search for them. I'm guessing they will be after something similar than what-ever you are carrying with you, so if we can find the Skyrim equivalent we might just get a solid heading."

"Makes sense. And yes, I assure you they are looking for this," he replied patting his pocket. He was again expecting some inquisition as to what it was, but again none came.

"The stop after that, I think should be the Brotherhood. I would like to know why we were both after the same target. Besides, I'm sure they would all be very interested in meeting you."


	8. Oh Nevermind it Found Us

The evening air was crisp, but the sky was clear and Altaïr marveled at the beautiful night sky, the novelty of twin moons still new to him. They made camp near the dragon's reported sighting, planning to search for the creature at daybreak. The horses weren't tethered, but seemed happy enough to stand quietly close by. After lighting a little fire and tossing Altaïr a spare blanket, Quill made herself comfortable, propped up against her saddle.

She dozed off quickly, the slight pain left in her hand and shoulder numbed by a large bottle of Honeybrew wine she had drunk. But peaceful sleep was not meant to be. She felt as though she appeared in her familiar nightmare world - where Skyrim was destroyed by Alduin.

From Windhelm to Solitude, Skyrim was in chaos, the bodies of the dead rotting in the streets, Jorrvaskr, the college, the Brotherhood - all lay in ruins, she could see many of the corpses belonging to her friends. Through the smoke, almost thick enough to choke on, she could hear the desperate cries of people, and the terrible roar of the World Eater, mocking her with his mighty voice. Like always, she tried to run towards the screams, but every time she would only see more bloodshed. She screamed in rage and absolute fearful despair as she caught a glimpse of the great dragon leaping into the air and beginning a fast swoop down towards her.

She shook awake – startled to feel pressure on her shoulders and sharp eyes meeting hers. She was sitting upright, shaking violently and wet with sweat. Struggling to get free, she stumbled to her feet, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her face with one hand, using the other to motion to her companion to give her some space.

Altaïr felt shaken by what had transpired, it was as if Quill was in a waking nightmare. Her eyes were wide open, and the horrified expression left a chill in his bones. He shook her shoulders, trying to wake her to no avail. She screamed at something, apparently trying to save something or someone, when her eyes finally focused on his, he was surprised at the blind panic he saw there.

He gave her space to recollect herself, and eventually her breathing eased, and her shoulders became slightly less tensed. She turned to him, hand over her mouth, regarding him wordlessly for a long while before she finally spoke.

"I apologize," she said, and he was surprised to see a slight blush on her cheeks.

"What for?"

"That's why I mostly travel alone, or don't sleep when I travel with people. No-one can get any rest with a howling banshee in their camp," she replied, giving him a half-hearted smirk.

"Does it happen often - night terrors?"

"Almost every time I sleep," she said taking a seat by the fire. She pulled her knees up and rested her elbows on them, pulling a blade of grass idly apart.

"Why is that something to apologize for? Many people suffer from nightmares." He replied, sitting a small distance from her. Truth be told, his own heart was still racing. It was a nerve wrecking way to be woken up by such a terrified shriek.

She gave him a sarcastic look and a snort, "Not when I'm supposed to be dragonborn."

"You do realize I hardly know what you people are talking about half the time?"

To his surprise, she laughed. He was serious, however. He felt like they were randomly mixing a completely different language into every sentence and expecting him to follow them. He was relieved though, that she seemed over her fright so quickly.

"What are your terrors about?" he asked finally.

"I see the end of the world - everything destroyed by Alduin. I assume you know the general story – I've seen you reading the book?"

"Vaguely, I must confess there are some areas I am confused about. I can understand the concept to be frightening – but why specifically have nightmares about that?"

"Because I don't know if it can be stopped."

"Well, then it doesn't really help worrying about it. Someone, the person from that legend, will have to worry about it, but it need not be you, right now. It is no use being tormented by something beyond your control," he said.

She shrugged, realizing then that he never made the association between dragon born and Dovahkiin, and herself. She didn't know how exactly to explain it to him. She was terrified by the way that everyone put all their faith to save the world in her hands. It was refreshing for someone to know her as Quill – not any of her titles. She would see how he reacts when they slay the dragon.

Since sleep was clearly out for the remainder of the evening, Altaïr tried prying for more information about his host to that world – both of whom he still found very strange.

"If you don't mind me being blunt, why is your name Quill? It's a rather odd name."

"Well, it's sort of a funny story. I don't actually have a name," she said with a chuckle.

"Oh?"

"As a baby, I was found in the woods. My parent's caravan had been attacked, and somehow I was the sole survivor. The man that found me was a lonely farmer, and had no idea what to do with me. But he couldn't just leave me, and so he took me home. As for the name – according to him, for the first year since he found me, I waddled around the farm with a quill clutched in my hand. For lack of a name in the beginning, he used it as a nick name, but it soon stuck. He tried other names, but apparently I refused to respond to anything else."

"Well it is unique. Why would you leave such a tranquil life and become the leader of three (if I'm correct) guilds - the call of adventure?"

"No, I just had no reason to stay there anymore," she said dismissively.

"Didn't you get along with your adopted father then?"

She sighed heavily, and spent some time intently inspecting her nails before finally answering.

"No, I loved him and I loved living on the farm. I honestly didn't want to do or be anywhere else. But it appears the gods had another destiny planned for me. He was murdered one day, and I could do nothing to stop it. I took my revenge on the men that did it – Imperial soldiers. It's amazing the amount of damage one untrained enraged youth can do. I continued stalking the Imperials' camps, killing as many as I could, my grief and anger would not be sated. On a side note – Skyrim is in the midst of civil unrest, and the Imperials being the enemy (depending on who you ask) didn't improve my liking of them. So I'm either a criminal rebel or a revolutionary hero… But I digress, my luck eventually ran out, and I was caught and imprisoned. I managed to escape about a year later."

Quill had never told anyone how she had landed on her current path, and wasn't sure why she was telling him now. She had never planned any of this, but she knew that it was impossible to try and run from it either.

"I've never told anyone this before," she said after a while, staring at the fire, not wanting to meet his eyes. She felt slightly embarrassed. "Never mind, there's nothing to be done about the past. Tell me about you – I've poured out enough of my heart for having drunk so little ale."

"I am sorry; losing a loved one is never easy. I too witnessed my father's death. Except, I grew up among the assassins, my father was one too, and I entirely poured myself into my training. Moving on can be hard, but I didn't have to do it alone, even though I initially tried to," he replied.

"I am sorry to hear that. Growing up to become an assassin must have been a tough childhood though. I spent my days playing with the new born calves, and swimming in the partly frozen lake near our house."

"It was, but it was good too. Discipline, routine and an ever-watchful eye – can be good for a stubborn growing boy. But I've made plenty of mistakes, though. Some of which I'm not sure I'll ever be able to do penance for."

"Having death as a trade is sure to leave a foul after-taste eventually. And it sounds like you've been at it a lot longer than I have."

"No, it's not really that - for the most part we have three tenets that guide us, and keeps us from being common murderers. But I became arrogant as I became more skilled, and I neglected these rules and many got hurt due to my actions. It took me a while to realize what my actions had cost me – I lost trust, and had to earn it back. A man I now see as perhaps my most trusted friend, lost his brother because of me, and I don't feel like I would ever be able to get his blood off my hands."

"Well, if you're still friends, it surely means he's forgiven you. There is no use in berating yourself for his loss if he has managed to move on. But I know – it's sometimes easier to forgive someone else than to forgive yourself."

Quill wondered about his comment regarding the difference between being an assassin and a murderer. She had often struggled with the same dilemma herself. One could surely not be considered an assassin purely when coin and contract was involved. But they did receive their contracts, theoretically from a deity. But the ritual, or prayer, of the person requesting the contract – can come from anyone. And a few times in her career as assassin, Quill had wondered about the person she was sent to kill. Sometimes a contract is based on something as simple and base as jealousy, or greed. Surely that could not be right. But how does one know which contracts are worthy and which are not? They all come through the same medium – the Night Mother.

They sat in silence for a while, the weighty topic turning the mood far too melancholy for Quill's liking. She preferred not to dwell on such thoughts too much.

"So, how did you end up being the leader of three guilds?" Altaïr asked.

"Well, three guilds and a college, technically," she replied. "Honestly, I'm not sure."

"How don't you know?" he asked doubtfully.

"No really. I honestly am still baffled by it. I joined the Companions after I escaped from prison, and I didn't have two coppers to rub together. I needed contacts, I needed money and I needed a place to sleep. I was actually planning to leave Skyrim, get as far south as I could, try starting over. But after spending time with the Companions, I became settled. It was nice to belong somewhere again. Then things got ugly when the Harbinger was murdered."

"Farkas told me, that is sort of like the leader, right?"

"Sort of yes. But for some reason he decided to leave the title to me. And so within a year of being a rather hopeless novice recruit, everyone was looking to me for guidance. I really never saw it going that way. Similar story with the Thieves; I joined to pick up their skills and make some coin – I'm starting to sound rather money obsessed, but any way. And before I knew it I was plunged into their politics and became one of their secret order – a Nightingale. It's really odd though, how secret orders all tend to have secret orders within them. Ugh, it just baffles the mind."

Altaïr gave her a smile. He rememberd Farkas' retelling of her initiation fight into the Companions, and it hardly sounded 'hopeless' to him. She was rambling, but he found it amusing, and he was also learning quite a bit about her and the guilds she associated with.

Quill found a genuine smile from Altaïr quite disarming, and she turned her eyes towards the fire instead.

"Well, then I accidentally intruded on a Dark Brotherhood assassination – see I too have first-hand experience there. I just got off a lot less easy than you - sheesh you still owe me for that. But anyway, so I became a member there and everything was going well. I was a low level lackey, minding my own business when I found out I was the Listner. And it just went down hill – or rather up – from there."

"Some would call that good luck. I still don't understand what you mean by Listner though."

"That…" she gave an involuntary shudder, "that is something I don't really know how to explain without it sounding entirely insane and creepy. It is not the best story, really."

"Alright. You mentioned a college?"

"That I actually didn't join for the money. I wanted to train in a few basic healing spells, being on the road and in fights so much I thought it could come in handy. It has served me well, but being basically the only adventuring one at the college I got sent to all sorts of ruins and caves to look for artifacts and the like. I just happened to discover something really big, ancient and powerful. In the end I was by dumb luck the one that was able to stop it too – and thus I was given the mantle of Archmage." She shrugged. Retelling the story of her own rise to power in the guilds made it sound unreal even to her.

"Either you are far more ambitious than you lead on, or you are really just too lucky."

"Nah, I wouldn't call it luck. I really never wanted to be the person that everyone looks to for guidance. I am by far the one that's most lost – how could I possibly lead others?" She meant it more rhetorically, and as such was quite surprised by the answer she got.

"The fact that you think you're not leader material is probably what makes you so good at it. You don't think yourself above anyone else, and as such people find you approachable. People only follow someone they can relate to and believe in. Make no mistake, if they thought you could not lead, you would not be in the position too long."

Quill blinked stupidly a few times, trying to think of a suitable response. Fortunately, or unfortunately, she was saved from having to think of something as she heard the familiar rumble in the sky and felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. She stood, scanning the skyline for any sign of the beast.

"What is it?" Altaïr asked quietly.

Quill turned to answer him, but the next moment all hell broke loose.

"Move!" She barked at him, and lunging forward she pushed him aside just as a blazing hot stream of fire hurtled down to where he had been. The dragon hovered above the ground on silent wings.

He watched in shock as the flames devoured everything in its path – not a legend after all. The dragon roared in anger, and plunged itself higher into the sky. Quill quickly dug in the tiny pouch around her waist and threw three little vials at him.

"Fire resistance," she said before swallowing one herself.

The dragon made a wide circle above them, and spiraled down towards them. Altaïr now knew what to look for, and as the dragon drew a breath he readied himself to jump clear of the fire. Quill had other ideas though, she ran till she was directly beneath the dragon, and then answered its roar with her own.

A thick layer of ice formed on the belly and wings of the dragon and it seemed rather surprised as it fell to the ground. Flying or grounded, it was no less dangerous. Using its wings, tail and gigantic jaws it continued a merciless attack on its small assailants.

With Quill trying to dodge snapping jaws and pelts of fire, while still trying to do some damage, Altaïr took the opportunity to dive beneath the dragon's body and plunge his sword into its heart – or where he hoped its heart was.

This instantly shifted the dragon's focus from Quill to himself. The dragon rose on its hind legs and curved its long neck trying to pry Altaïr from its chest with its jaws. Using his hidden blade, he swiped at the dragon's eye, causing it to jerk away and in that instant giving Quill her needed opening. She grabbed hold of one of the creature's horns, and hauling herself onto its head, she drove her sword through its skull.

They both leapt to safety from the flailing dragon as it fell to the ground. It died rather anti-climatically with a sound like a sigh.

"Alright, so this really is a dragon…" Altaïr said, staring at the massive body.

Even as he watched it started to disintegrate, as if it was burning from the inside out. The disappearing bulk of the dragon was glowing with a soft yellow glow, the light swirling into a vortex which connected with Quill, enveloping her in the same golden glow, before fading into her with the sound of rushing wind.

"I feel like I keep repeating myself here, but – what just happened?" Altaïr asked, with slight annoyance. Just when he thought he was getting a handle on the place, it threw something new and strange in his path.

"Dragon's soul. That's how I just know how to do the shouts."

"You absorbed its… soul? That book, about the end of the world, speaks of that. That would make you this 'Dovahkiin' person?"

"Yes. Dovhakiin in the dragon tongue means dragonborn." She bit her lip.

He regarded her silent and frowning.

"That explains why you are so worried about the prophecy – why didn't you just tell me?"

"I… Honestly, I liked someone not having this huge expectation of me."

Dawn was fast approaching, they cleared up camp and mounted their horses to continue on to Winterhold.

She fiddled with her right arm, something must have gotten up her sleeve, and was scratching and burning the skin there. The entire bracer felt hot to the touch, but she didn't pay it too much mind at the time.

Quill felt the silence between them awkward for the first time. She would give her companion a quick glance every once in a while, and his frowning countenance unnerved her. He was really someone quite unlike she had ever met. He hadn't taken her leadership as a given – which both annoyed and intrigued her, and she wondered how he would act towards her now.

She had quickly become used to his constant presence, and found looking over her shoulder and seeing him astride the mighty black steed of the assassins a strangely reassuring sight. She just had to keep she reminding herself that this was not a permanent arrangement. The whole aim was to get him away from Skyrim again, to send him home.

This made her feel far too melancholy, though.


	9. The College of Winterhold

Following the palomino ahead to the next town, Altaïr felt more than slightly frustrated.

After what happened last night, she could at least have given him some kind of fair warning that she was basically a legendary figure herself – preventing the destruction of the world - how does one neglect to mention that? He sighed, and Shadowmere gave him a soft whiny.

"Yes, I guess you're right. She did say why she didn't tell me. But I am barely getting a grip on things here, and her keeping a few rather important secrets just makes this more frustrating," he replied under his breath. The horses threw its head into the air, shaking it.

"I haven't thought of it like that. I guess it is hypocritical, keeping the Apple secret. But this object is dangerous, and the less people that know I carry it, the better for everyone. It has caused the downfall of many."

The horse snorted.

"Fine, I will show it to her. I have been no more forthcoming with my secrets than she has been with hers, it is true."

And then Altaïr realized he was having a conversation with a horse – and he understood what it said back. Shadowmere give an odd nicker, the one that sounded like a laugh.

"It's not funny – I'm taking advice from a horse…"

Mid-morning they arrived in Winterhold. This was more a hamlet than a town – and Altaïr wondered why there were so many abandoned and half destroyed buildings in the town. Looming big and slightly eerily over the few buildings was the College. An arched, crumbling bridge lead across a fissure between the cliff side and the rocky protrusion where the college building perched loftily. A few scholars where chatting in the courtyard, but lowered their voices when the two walked passed. Hushed whispers and meaningful looks passed between them. Altaïr caught the words "Archmage", "dragon born" and perhaps said little less flatteringly "adventurer".

Quill ignored the looks and whispers as they passed the group. She knew she wasn't too popular – and many were skeptical about her sudden rise to Archamge, herself no less. She wasn't even exactly what one would classify as a mage. She entered the building and was happy to find the man she was hoping to speak with right in the entry way.

"Tolfdir – just the man I was looking for," she said happily.

"Ah my dear, or Archmage rather, it's good to see you again. What can I do for you," the friendly old mage chuckled.

"Mind if we go to my study? I would like to pose a puzzle to you."

Altaïr followed them up a few stairs and was amazed at the room they ended up in. The entrance area consisted solely of bookcases filled to the brim. The attached room was circular and held a beautifully kept herb garden, with many strange plants he didn't know. There was some kind of potion mixing station to the one side, and to the other a small table with freshly laid fruits and breads. It was here that they took a seat, Quill removing her gloves and bracers, frowning as she inspected her forearm.

"Now you do have me curious – what is this question of yours?"

"Well, it is two part. Firstly – if there was some power in the world that could move people literally between worlds, what would it be? I have thought of Deadric powers, but I don't think that's it."

"Why would one see the need to move people across worlds?" the man asked. It was an interesting indication to Altaïr that the man's first question wasn't "is it possible", but rather "why".

"Well, let's say it wasn't planned, but that in the search of something – I don't know what – one ends up here, as opposed to where one was…"

Here the man turned to Altaïr, and asked "What were you searching for?"

Altaïr had already made up his mind (after his conversation with Shadowmere – it still sounded crazy) to show the Apple to Quill. Since she apparently trusted this man, he decided to do the same – take a leap of faith, as it were.

"This is what brought me here," he said placing the shining golden orb on the table.

Both Quill and Tolfdir looked at it with great interest, but neither tried to touch it, so Altaïr lay his hand over it, and the golden ball began to shimmer to his touch.

"I should perhaps have showed this to you before, but this is known as The Apple. It is a Piece of Eden, held by the Assassins, by me. All we know of these items are that they are very powerful. They can give the wielder power unimaginable in our world - to manipulate others' minds and events. Other than that we have deducted that it was placed on our world by a powerful, long since extinct previous race. This is the closest thing we have to magic in my world – but it only creates illusions, it's not real. There are many other Pieces, and we – the Assassins – are in a race against time to find the other pieces, before a rival group does. They want to dominate over humanity, where we want to prevent it."

Quill held out her hand questioningly, and Altaïr placed it in her palm. To his astonishment, the orb lifted a little, hovering above her hand, and gently rotated. Quill gave a little chuckle, feeling as though a soft wind had brushed her skin – the power of the object resonating from it, she handed the Apple back to him wordlessly.

"Very interesting," the old man commented. "If you say it was a remnant before your know history – I can only think of one thing that it would equate to in our world…"

Quill's eyes lit up in realization, "The Elder Scrolls! Of course!"

"What's an elder scroll?"

"They hold vast power and knowledge, but they are hidden in our world. Just to read one of the scrolls one needs years of training."

"Perhaps the people that came here from your world, are looking for a scroll? And since you say your aim is to stop them, that's how you got here. But which scroll would they be interested in? Each scroll holds different knowledge." Quill winched as she bumped her forearm against the table.

"Oh that brings me to the second question. Why would magic stop working?" she asked, showing the old man the burn wounds on her arm. She had drunk a fire resistance potion, but the dragon's breath had still burned her skin beneath her armor.

"How long has this been happening?" Tolfdir asked, sounding concerned.

"Oh I'm not sure – it's been getting worse gradually. It started about, uh, how long have you been here?" she asked Altaïr.

"I actually have no idea. My sense of time and direction has entirely gone muddled."

"About two weeks, I'd guess," she thought aloud. Altaïr could hardly believe he had been there so long.

"And you are saying it started when he arrived?"

"Roughly, I guess."

"May I do a test?" the old man asked Altaïr.

"Alright," he replied, a bit skeptically.

"It will not hurt too much," he said, taking Altaïr's hand, and using a small sharp knife, he made a tiny cut, just enough to draw blood, on the assassin's finger. Next Tolfdir cast a minor healing spell onto the wound. Nothing happened.

Altaïr and Quill looked puzzled. "But the potions worked on you before?" she asked.

"Yes, but that was also when they were still working one you too. The last one I had reason to use, was the one that very first night."

"Interesting," the old man mused. "I have a theory. I think it is like falling into a frozen lake – you system was shocked when you arrived in Skyrim, and as such the rules that govern our land, governed you. But if the magic is slowly fading away from you, it stands to reason that you are acting like an anchor in this world for you own."

"Meaning?" Quill asked, a little impatiently. Tolfdir chuckled at her.

"Meaning, he is drawing more of his world into this one, the longer he stays here, to more pronounced it becomes. And like an area effect spell, it is influencing those in his company."

They both stared at him frowning.

"But why can I still do shouts? And other abilities not present in his world?"

"The dragon shouts aren't really magic, in the sense that a spell or potion is magic. It is more, like you say, an ability or a skill. You haven't lost other more 'normal' skills, and so it would make sense that you do not lose that either. It is, of course only a theory – I don't suppose you two would offer a year or two for me to do some tests and explore this more fully? It's very interesting…" he asked, almost hopefully.

Quill gave him a half smile. "No, sorry Tolfdir. We've got other 'anchors' to find."

After a moments thoughtful silence, "Do you suppose the effect will be reversed? Once I leave again," Altaïr asked. He somehow felt bad that his presence was more than just an intrusion on Quill's time, it had now changed an integral part of herself.

"I don't know. I guess that would depend on how strong the effect is, and how long you will be here. I really do wish you'd let me conduct a few tests…" he said the last bit more to himself really.

Quill had meanwhile left the table to inspect the herbs in the garden. She had picked a few and proceeded to mix the plants into a paste. With care she applied the mixture to her burnt arm, and wrapped it with a bandage.

Tolfdir excused himself, suggesting they check the librarian for clues as to which scroll they might be after.

"I am sorry that I have caused your loss of magic," Altaïr said, as she rejoined him at the table.

She shrugged. "Well, at least I have an idea now of why it's happening. I will just have to learn to be more careful when I fight, since avoiding injury entirely suddenly seems much better than recuperating after one."

"That would be a good idea, yes."

"My shoulder at least seems to be all heal up now."

"We must remove the stitches then. After your body has mended the wound there is no need for them, and leaving them too long will cause them to get stuck," he explained.

She frowned and said with a huff, "I feel like I don't know anything."

Altaïr laughed.

"You feel like _you_ don't know anything? Ha – I can't even tell you what day it is, or where all the places are that we go to or have been."

She cleared the table, and from her pouch, pulled out a much used map, flattening it on the table.

"Here, I'll show you," she said.

He stood next to her, leaning over her to get a clear view of the map.

"Here," she tapped her forefinger, adorned with a wolf's head ring, to the South East of the map, "This is Riften – where we met." Trailing a path towards the West, and slightly North past a mountain, she stopped again on Whiterun. "Here's Whiterun." Then she continued further North, North West, stopping on a tiny dot. "Here's the College. And here is the Brotherhood Sanctuary." She finished a little more down, further to the West.

She turned back to him smiling. At so close quarters, they were mere inches apart. They stood staring at each other for a long moment, a smile tugging at the corner of Altaïr's mouth. Blushing, Quill suddenly took a step back, turning her attention deliberately back to the map. He remained where he was, following her movements with his eyes.

She folded the map, and held it out to him. "In case anything happens and we get separated – at least you'll be able to find your way."

Taking the map with a smile, he thanked her. Their hands touching briefly as the map changed ownership.

"Well, let's go see the librarian," she said abruptly, a faint blush still visible on her cheeks. "He doesn't like me much – but he'll be interested in the topic I think."

After gathering a few more herbs and carefully replacing the bracer on her injured arm, Quill fairly rushed form the room, feeling like a fool. What was with all her stammering and blushing, for Oblivion's sake. Feeling embarrassed, she felt the blush creep back. Pulling her hood over her head, she felt slightly more secure in the darkness it offered.

He followed her back down the stairs, a bemused smile on his lips. There was just something about her…


	10. More Answers Lead to More Questions

The librarian was not at all what Altaïr expected. The man was a huge brute, with emerald green skin, and two curved pointed teeth extending over his upper lip from his bottom jaw. He had to try very hard not to make a foolish comment or stare too blatantly at the strange man – the librarian was ill-tempered as it were, and Altaïr thought it unwise to worsen his mood.

Quill seemed entirely at ease though, which he took as his queue to act as normally as possible.

"Another question about the Elder Scrolls? Which one are you interested in?" asked Urag gro-Shub gruffly.

"I'm not sure. I was hoping you might know – seeing as you have the most knowledge of these kinds of things," Quill replied smoothly, her voice like honey. "And, what do you mean, 'another question'?"

The librarian sighed, and took out a heavy tome from below his desk.

"There was a group of Thalmor here, they had two strange men with them." Here he paused to give Altaïr a meaningful look.

"They asked about the Dragon Scroll. That the one you're interested in too – I thought you already had it?" he said, a little less hostile. Quill and Altaïr shared a nervous look. They were clearly behind in figuring things out.

"Uh, yes, I guess that's the one then," she replied, wondering whether he had told them she had it. "Would a scroll be able to influence another world?"

"Many wouldn't directly – they are created for and bound to Nirn. But I see no reason why what they effect, couldn't be used elsewhere."

"How do you mean?" Altaïr asked.

Altaïr got a hard look from the librarian, but Quill kept a hopeful smile firmly stuck on her lips, and with a sigh he continued. "The Elder Scroll Sun for instance – here it would blot out the sun, causing the darkness of night during day time. I doubt it would work in a different world – since it is bound to our world and our sun. However, I think that something like the Dragon Scroll might have uses beyond our world. It places the reader in a different time – and time is not only bound to our world."

"That's just super," said Quill, slightly deflated. "What did you tell the Thalmor?"

"Only that it was a scroll affecting time, and it needed to be used at the Throat of the World to my knowledge. They don't know you have it."

That was at least a relief. Quill thanked the orc kindly for his wonderful assistance before leaving.

To Altaïr's surprise, she had them staying at the inn in Winterhold, not at the college.

The sky so far north was permanently overcast and the borders between night and day felt more blurred. The fire in the center of the room had mellowed down, casting the entire room in a cozy glow and after all the inn's regular patrons returned to their homes and the inn keeper bid them good night, Quill approached the subject of what she learned from the librarian.

"It wasn't exactly what I was hoping to hear," she explained. "He has a point, though, about the Elder Scrolls generally being bound to and intricately woven into our world. But the Dragon Scroll… it doesn't affect our world directly. I'm not really sure how it will transport one to a different time, or why the Thalmor might be interested in it, but as Urag gro-Shub mentioned, I actually already have it in my possession."

"I'm sure I can think of several uses for an object that grants time travel. Who or what are the Thalmor? Apparently they are in league with the men I am look for."

"The Thalmor is really why many Nords are rebelling against the Empire. They are elven supremacists, and because of more history than I care to remember, they have outlawed the worship of one of our nine gods. They are powerful, and they would like nothing more than to control the entire world."

"Well, that would explain why the Templars would be interested in working with them. The Templars are the rival order I told you about, that I am trying to stop. Perhaps they have each offered the other power from the respective worlds?"

"I guess that would make sense. I am just relieved that they don't know where the scroll is."

"Well, it's a good thing we already have it then."

"Yes, but I've been avoiding it and what I'll have to do."

"And what is that?"

"I was advised to search for it by Paarthurnax, he's, I guess, a friendly dragon. He taught the Greybeards to use shouts – and he has offered some guidance to me in my quest to stop Alduin."

"A friendly dragon?"

"Yeah, I know. But in any case – I have been avoiding to go back there, because I… because I'm afraid," she said with a mirthless laugh. "I have to read the scroll to somehow gain knowledge into how the old heroes defeated Alduin. It is apparently a shout that Paarthurnax doesn't know, because it was born out of the hatred of the people for the dragons. Thus he doesn't understand it, and can't teach it." She took the scroll from her bag – and Altaïr was again struck at the wonder of such a large object fitting into such a tiny pouch.

It was in a long cylindrical casing, richly decorated with precious gems and carvings. Altaïr picked it up, and examined the artifact. He could clearly feel some kind of power within, almost similar to that of the Apple. A small tab extended out of a thin opening along the length of the casing, and curiously he started pulling it out to reveal a parchment. He was just beginning to see strange symbols, letters and numbers swirling on the page, his eyes feeling strained, when Quill grabbed the scroll from his hands.

"No!" she said shocked. "Sorry, I should have warned you – you could go blind or insane reading one of these without proper training." She placed the scroll safely back into her bag.

"And you have training?" he asked.

"Not exactly," she said sheepishly.

"And you're planning to read it at the behest of a dragon?"

"I see little other choice."

"Are you insane?" he asked, his voice rising with his temper. Her deliberate disregard for self-preservation was too much for him. "Have you considered that it might have been a trick? The dragon might want the scroll for itself, or might be working with Alduin? With you out of the picture, his return to your world would be unchallenged!"

"Hey!" she yelled back at him. "Do you think any of this was my idea? I have no choice – everyone expects me to fix _everything_! I never wanted any part of it – but my opinion doesn't count. If I don't stop this, or die trying, no one else will – and I have to do it all alone!" She was jabbing at his chest with her finger, her tone was a mix of anger and desperation, but tears were brimming in her eyes.

She swallowed hard, the two staring hard at each other in the sudden silence.

He leaned forward ever so slightly, closing the small gap between them, their lips meeting.

After a mere second, he pulled away slightly examining her still wide eyes. Both of them appeared slightly stunned by what had just happened.

"We… really shouldn't," she whispered, before leaning in to kiss him - his hand twisting into her hair at the base of her neck, her hands firmly taking hold in the folds of his robes.

At length, Quill pulled away, biting her lip – a blush bright on her cheeks – which Altaïr enjoyed seeing far too much.

"You'll be gone soon," she said looking at the floor.

He sighed.

"Yes," he replied simply, tucking a few stray hairs behind her ear.

She nodded mutely.

"But I promise you – you won't have to face the black dragon alone," he said, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his.

She gave him a small grateful smile, turned and left the inn.

Quill needed the cool fresh air to clear her head, and leaving Altaïr before she did anything else stupid, she breathed deeply of the ice cold night. The air was so crisp, it stung her face and burned her throat. But she smiled, _this_ was real. _This_ was what she knew, and where she belonged. She just needed to keep that in mind.

It was snowing, as usual in Winterhold, and on a whim she tried to shift form, and felt the usual tingly pain as bone rearranged itself to accommodate her new form.

So that 'skill' has not been lost to her either. She lifted her muzzle to the sky and howled mournfully in the freezing wind, before she took off into the surrounding wilds.

With little else to do, Altaïr went to bed, but sleep evaded him. Listing to the wind howling outside, and the falling of the snow, he heard too the lonesome howl of a wolf.

The following morning, after little sleep, Altaïr strolled into the main room of the inn to find Quill animatedly playing some kind of card game with the inn keeper. From the look of it she had won – repeatedly. She was dressed in a fine purple robe, with a broad belt and fur lined collar and cuffs – she looked very different than she usually did in her black armor.

He actually thought the armor suited her better – he could tell she was also more comfortable in it. There was just something about her in that armor, that was quite striking – it fit her well enough that there was no doubt that she was a woman, but it also gave off an air of mystique – like steel wrapped in fine cloth.

"Morning," she said with perhaps a bit of forced brightness.

They sat down to a silent breakfast of bread and vegetable soup.

"So, the Dark Brotherhood next?" Altaïr asked eventually.

"Yep," she said, scratching at her left shoulder. "The stitches are itching. Is that normal?" she asked, frowning.

"Yes, it means you are healed, and the presence of the stitches is irritating the skin."

"Ok, so let's get them out before we go," she said, motioning towards her room. For the most part Quill tried to keep a minimum distance of an arm's length between them, she was just too unnerved at how she could literally feel his presence at too close quarters.

Altaïr noticed that the bed had not been slept in, and the only item of hers there, was her armor, neatly hung on a mannequin. It almost felt like another presence in the room. He saw a cloth and small bottle of oil by the base of the stand, the armor gleaming in the fire light.

Shrugging the robe off her shoulder, she took a seat on the bed. Her undershirt had thin straps instead of sleeves, leaving the white scars clearly visible on her shoulder. Altaïr was pleased with how well the wounds had healed.

He pulled one of his throwing knives out, and using the delicate point of the blade began removing the stitches. Her skin felt almost too cool under his fingers, but looking at her slightly bored expression he assumed she wasn't cold.

"All done," he said, putting the small blade away, and examining the scars. They would probably always be there, but they were quite neat and thin at least. "It's healed well."

"Pulling them out was a lot better than putting them in, I have to say," she said, running a finger over the fine line. "You could be a tailor, with such a steady hand," she noted.

He arched his brow at her. "A tailor?"

"Yeah, you know, if the whole assassin thing doesn't work out."

He chuckled, leaving her to get the last of her things.

Soon they were on their way to the Assassins guild, and Altaïr felt himself ill at ease as to what he was going to find there. They really didn't sound like his kind of assassins.

A distance out of the town they were ambushed by a group of bandits. Nothing they couldn't handle, but Altaïr was interested to note how quickly Quill had adapted her fighting style. She was definitely much more cautious of getting hit, and he actually thought she fought better this way.

Altaïr killed the last bandit with his hidden blade, and looked up to see her watching him with interest. Nearing him, she took his left hand, and curiously turned it this way and that, inspecting his bracer.

Making sure her fingers were out of the way, he closed his fist, and the blade extended. Her eyes lit up in wonder.

"Oh I need one of these," she said eagerly. "But… Is the loss of a finger necessary?"

"It prevents the blade from injuring the assassin every time he extends it. And it's supposed to be a symbol of our devotion to our creed."

"But doesn't that also make it easier to find you? I mean, if all assassins have a missing ring finger?"

Altaïr frowned, "Yes, I guess it might."

"So what's this creed of yours? I remember you mentioning it before," she asked as they remounted.

"Three tenets to guide us, and keep us true to our mission: The first, stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent. The second, hide in plain sight. The third, and most perhaps important, never compromise the Brotherhood."

"And what is your mission?"

"We seek to bring peace."

"Isn't that slightly ironic though - seeking peace by dealing in death?"

"Yes, it is in a way. But it also shows how the assassin is in himself, a contradiction – being two opposite things at the same time."

"That reminds me of what a little girl once told me," she replied, thinking of young Runa. "The contract I stumbled upon that landed me in the Brotherhood in the first place, was in fact a contract from a young boy, an orphan. He contracted the Brotherhood, mistaking me as one of them, to kill the orphanage matron in Riften." She quickly continued, seeing Altaïr's expression change in horror.

"No, no, she was in fact a terrible person. She refused to let any of the children be adopted, instead making them work for her. Her second in command is a much gentler soul and the children are much happier now that she takes care of them. But, I spoke to one of the girls a while after, and she said 'think of the good that can be done, by taking the life of one bad person'. And I guess that is sort of what you do?"

"Yes. Or what we try to do."

"I quite like your tenets," she said, repeating them quietly to herself.

"And the Dark Brotherhood – do you have any guiding rules?"

"They used to, but the previous leader had rendered them void, choosing to do as she pleased. They basically only protected the rights of the Dark Brotherhood and those belonging to it – and required absolute unquestioning loyalty to the Night Mother and Sithis."

"What is Sithis?"

"He is a god, in a manner of speaking – he represents emptiness and the void, and is appeased by death."

"And this is your deity?" he asked, wondering why anyone would choose to worship such a being.

"Not mine personally, no, but the Brotherhood's. I think they find it comforting that a power greater than themselves holds the dice to their actions."

"What about you then?"

"I don't really know anymore. My life is such a mess because of so many powers wanting a piece of the Dragonborn-pie, I just don't know. It basically works like this – there are the Nine Divines, eight gods and one king, Talos, raised to godly status after saving humanity. (I have always liked the idea of him.) But then there are other deities, not really universally worshipped, but powerful none the less. Sithis, Nocturnal and Hircine are deities of the guilds I belong to. Although Nocturnal and Hircine are Daedric Princes, not gods. Nocturnal is the prince of darkness, luck and the night, as such she is the patron of the Thieves. Hircine is the spirit of the hunt, and was the one that gave the Companions the curse of the beast-blood, to become werewolves. So, yes, it can get a little complicated."

"That does sound rather complicated in deed."

"For the most part, I don't really pay too much attention to them," she said with a shrug.


	11. The Dark Brotherhood

Unlike the great fortress of Masyaf, the Dark Brotherhood's den was not visible unless you knew where to look. Altaïr assumed they were still miles away, when Quill stopped and dismounted, walking towards a small rocky out-crop.

Following her curiously, they went around a small hidden bend that lead to an ominous black door in the rock-face. A skull had been carved into the door, its eyes glowed a deep red.

Altaïr was sure he heard the door whisper "Welcome, Listener…" as Quill's hand touched it.

He followed her down a narrow passage that opened into a larger room. It was cool and dark so far down, and the few sputtering candles gave the entire place an eerie feeling. Passages lend down to the left and the right of the open area, and to the right a large sarcophagus stood, surrounded in a shrine-like tableau of candles, flowers and flags with the image of the Black Hand.

Quill walked deliberately to the left of the room.

In a larger room, well lit with a cozy fireplace and a large table in the middle of the room, several chairs were around the table – currently only one of which was occupied.

"_Oh damnation, why did Babette have to be the first one…_" Quill thought.

Altaïr was confused to barely see the small head and shoulders above the back of the chair. Quill had been so surprised to hear that he grew up an assassin, and here he sees a child among her own guild.

"Hello Listener," the girlish voice said, without turning around. The she raised her head, and abruptly spun around, a bright smile on her lips.

"Hi Babette, this is…" Quill began, but before she could get any further, the girl interrupted her.

"Oh, hello mister," she said sweetly, but Quill recognized the gleam in her eyes. "The Dark Brotherhood killed my mama and papa, and then they took me captive! They've made me do terrible things to poor innocent people!" the girl cried mournfully.

"Babette…" Quill said warningly, but was ignored.

"Mister, don't you think it a bit tough to send one small girl after a well-protected nobleman?" she batted her eyelashes and taking his hand looked at Altaïr with huge soulful eyes.

Altaïr turned to Quill, a mix of disbelief and horror on his face.

"Babette!" Quill growled, and the girl curled back her lips with a hiss.

"Oh alright, I was just having some fun," she said sulkily – the very girlish nature of her tone disappeared. "I'm going to creep into a coffin, if you'll excuse me," she said as she left, giving Altaïr a wink over her shoulder.

"What the hell..."

"I'm sorry you had to meet her first – she can be a bit much…"

"But she's a child... I think…" he said, remembering the stark change in her voice.

"No, she might be in body. But she's a three hundred year old vampire."

"That is the most disturbing encounter I have had here yet…" he replied with a shudder.

"I really am sorry, she isn't really that bad, but she likes to play that trick on any new person here – I think after three hundred years she's a bit bored with herself."

"A vampire? Well, I guess that shouldn't really surprise me anymore. You being a werewolf and all…"

She had lead him down a corridor, and showed him to an empty room.

"You can retire here if you wish, or you can get something to eat. I have to go ask someone a few questions," she said cryptically.

He watched her leave, but had no intention of doing anything other than find out what she was up to. She was being far too evasive, and he was far too curious. He quietly followed her back to the first room they had entered, and hiding in the shadows watched as she approached the sarcophagus.

Quill stood before the foreboding black granite box, and took a deep breath.

Lifting her head, she opened the coffin – the well-oiled hinges eerily silent - and saw the now familiar contorted features of the Night Mother within.

"Listener…" the words appeared in her mind, and she turned her head slightly away at this discomfort. "You have returned after the Riften contract – but I sense you are not done with it yet."

"The target was killed. But you are correct, I have questions regarding that contract," she replied firmly.

"Questions? The target was not eliminated – how can you demand answers when you have not done your duty?"

"What? No, it might not have been my blade that took his life, but Metillius Endario is dead."

"Metillius Endario? Oh my dear Listener," the Night Mother breathed in her head. "He was not your target…" Quill's face fell in shock. "You were sent to kill a man by the name Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was he the target?"

"Does it matter? The Brotherhood was contracted to kill him, and as such I sent the only worthy assassin to slay another assassin. I sent you, my Listener."

"It does matter – to me," she ground out, a sudden pounding in her head. "Who set up the contract? It was not the fool contact you sent me to."

"You will do well to use your ears better, my dear Listener," the voice warned.

"Ha! Use my ears? Why should I when you have the audacity to speak in my mind?" she bit back, but was immediately crippled by a blinding pain in her head. She fell to her hands and knees before the open coffin.

Altaïr shifted in the shadows, not sure whether he should – or could – help Quill. He had no idea what that terrible thing in the coffin was doing, or capable of.

"You may tell your friend to join us – I will see if you were wise to spare his life." The pain eased just enough for Quill to turn her head towards Altaïr's hiding place. A thin stream of blood had started flowing from her nose, and her eyes were blood shot. She rose to a sitting position, with her knees bent beneath her, and wiping her face with one hand, she motioned to him with the other.

Approaching cautiously, he helped her to her feet, a with a worried frown.

"What do you wish to know of him?" Quill asked the mummified remains.

"Mmmmm," the voice said thoughtfully. "He is rather a different kind of assassin than we are. He does not know Sithis – who does he appease with his dark deeds?"

"He serves no one," Quill replied, still a little unsteady.

"Then he is but a common murderer."

"Common murderer?" she replied with a mirthless laugh. "His kind seeks peace."

Altaïr was trying to piece the other end of the conversation together from Quill's answers.

"Peace? Peace is not in blood."

"If killing one can save many, it can be an instrument of peace."

"Do not think to lecture me," the voice said with another sharp pain to her head for emphasis. "I do not earnestly care what you choose to do, other than that the Brotherhood cannot fall into disrepute because you failed to carry out one simple contract. Now go."

"Excuse me?"

"I said go. Do not neglect your duties again, Listener. Next time Sithis might not be so forgiving."

Quill made the way down to her bedroom on shaky legs. Her nose had at least stopped bleeding, but she still had a pounding headache. She sat down at a round table, loosening the collar of her armor, feeling suffocated. The room was filled with all sorts of paraphernalia, from numerous armor stands and books, to chests and papers and weapon racks.

"Are you alright?" Altaïr asked at length.

She sat with her chin in her palms, and her eyes closed. "You were my contract," she said simply, opening her eyes.

"For what it's worth, thank you for not completing it."

She gave him a weak smile, drumming her fingers on the table.

"At least we now know why we were both there. I really thought I was after Metillius Endario too."

"Will you face punishment for not killing me?"

"I… I think I came off with a warning. She was oddly calm about it."

"You look very pale, do you need anything?" he asked, taking her hand.

"No, thank you. But I really don't want to spend too much more time here. I would like to get away from the Night Mother rather sooner than later."

"We leave when you're ready."

Quill penned a short note to Nazir, telling him to keep an eye on the place and that she might not be back for a while. And leaving the note on the large table in the common room, she led Altaïr out through the back door.

He was glad to be in the open air, the Brotherhood's lair was dank and chilly, and surprised to find Frost and Shadowmere waiting for them at the back entrance. Quill laughed when he asked her about it.

"You can go anywhere, and Shadowmere will be there," she replied.

"So where are we going now? This 'Throat of the World' place?" he asked, taking the map out and examining it.

"Yes, I think we should speak with Paarthurnax – he might know if it would be possible to use the Scroll to move in time in another world. I really think he is trying to help – when I asked him why he was helping me, he told me 'What is better – to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort'."

She leaned over, pointing to the high mountain just South East of Whiterun on the map. Leaning over too far she began slipping for the saddle, and with a yelp grabbed hold of Altaïr's sleeve, in the process jerking him from the saddle too. They landed awkwardly in between the two horses.

"Well, that was embarrassing," Quill muttered.

Altaïr laughed. "I thought you said I won't fall off?"

"Maybe Shadowmere thought it might be funny," she said dusting herself.

"I can't tell you went last I fell from a horse."

"I can," she said teasingly. "Just now."

He laughed, pulling her cowl further down over her face.

The rest of the afternoon's ride consisted of horse-play, in all senses of the word. They took a longer route heading first south, before turning east towards the mountain, splashing through streams, jumping logs or trying to get the other dismounted.

By the time evening had fallen, they were about a half day's ride to the mountain, but Quill warned him that reaching the base was only the beginning; it might take another half day to reach the summit.

The two sat side by side, watching a merry little fire, with their backs against a small outcrop of rock. Quill soon dozed off, her head slumping to rest on Altaïr's shoulder. She made a few sleepy whimpers, perhaps the coming of another nightmare, but she quieted down when Altaïr put his arm and cloak around her shoulder.

He leaned his head back, looking at the cloudy evening sky, and realized that his haste to return home had mellowed down to a distant sort of longing.

"_Of course I need to return, and as soon as possible – I have responsibilities and duties, and no one knows where I have disappeared to. But Skyrim doesn't feel all that unwelcoming anymore either_," he thought.

With a sigh, he rested his head on hers, and tried to get some sleep too.


	12. The Throat of the World

They reached the foot of the mountain late morning, and even so far from the summit, Altaïr could feel a different kind of energy around the area. Perhaps it was only his own trepidation at what might be awaiting them at the top, but it did feel different.

They were already high up on the snowy slope when Quill stopped with a groan.

"What is it?"

"Frost troll…" she said, dismounting and creeping forward.

Around the next bend a gigantic white creature was scuffling about in the path on its hind legs, it had eyes like a spider's and long powerful arms that ended in sharp claws. It was an ugly creature, and Altaïr didn't relish the thought of fighting it, but he saw no reason for Quill's worried expression.

She walked out from where they were hidden, and recognizing the sign, Altaïr watched her drawing a deep breath. The troll had seen her too, and was running towards her at a speedy lope. The next moment fire erupted from Quill's words, and the troll screeched as its fur burned, flailing at its face with dumb paws.

Altaïr was about to storm at the creature with swords drawn, but she grabbed his arm and led him at a run past the creature.

"What are you doing?"

"Frost trolls are only susceptible to fire – if you hit it with a sword it will regenerate health and become stronger! And I can't cast a fire spell anymore, so we have to run!" she replied between breaths.

"Why don't you just fire-shout at it again?" he asked, hearing the enraged creature setting after them.

"Shouts take a while to build up strength again, so I can't shout again immediately."

She led them to the edge of the steep ledge bordering the path, but made a quick turn just as the troll leapt towards them, the troll's rough paw barely missing a swipe at Altaïr. It landed heavily in the snow, a tiny distance from the edge. She took her gap and turned to the creature, drawing breath and shouting the creature clear off the ledge with the first two words of Unrelenting Force.

She collapsed in the snow, "Phew," she breathed. "Those things pack a deadly punch; you do not want to spend too much time in close proximity to one." Altaïr pulled her up, and the horses approached from further down, as if summoned.

"How do the shouts work, it sometimes sounds like more than one word?" Altaïr asked curiously.

"Each Thu'um is made up of three words – each consecutive word adding power to the force of a shout, but also making the time one needs to recover between shouts longer. So just saying YOL!" fire materialized above Frost's head, but he seemed unconcerned. "It shorter than using all three words and therefore less potent, but I will be recovered enough to do another shout a lot quicker."

"It's still a little unsettling to see you do that," Altaïr observed. "It goes against everything one is taught in my world."

"It's fairly rare even in Skyrim, if that makes you feel better. I've received odd looks for doing it here too. I've learned the hard way not to do it in towns or such."

"Oh?"

"Yes, in the beginning I wasn't too sure about how to control it, my execution was clumsy, and a word might slip out if I was thinking about it too much. Nearly burned a house down in Whiterun once," she said shaking her head.

"I can imagine that must have caused some problems?"

"Oh yes, I had to bribe a guard to not throw me in jail for public unrest," she replied with a laugh.

They stopped before a huge fortress, blocking the entire path further up the mountain.

"We will have to walk from here; we need to go through High Hrothgar to continue the path. This is the dwelling of the Greybeards – the men that study the Thu'um," she explained.

The Greybeards were a quiet folk, and they greeted Quill simply, but with reverence, before continuing in whatever they had been occupied with. They barely noticed Altaïr's presence, and if they did, they weren't inclined to acknowledge it. The only one that had some qualm to Quill taking him to Paarthurnax, was an elderly man Quill called Arngeir.

"Are you sure it is wise, Dovahkiin?" he asked, and although his voice was calm and soft, Altaïr felt a small vibration in the ground as he said the last word. He wondered at the power in the mere word, let alone the power Quill might wield then.

"I did not lead the Blades against Paarthurnax, and this man is far more my ally. Harm will not befall Paarthurnax by my doing, he is to an extent a friend of mine too," she reassured.

"As you wish then. Sky above, Voice within, Dovahkiin."

"Just how powerful are you, as the Dragonborn?" Altaïr asked as they started the path further up the mountain.

"I don't know. Hopefully powerful enough to stop Alduin, but I don't even know about that."

"I have seen you slay a dragon, this one might be bigger, but I'm in concept it is similar."

"Alduin isn't just a dragon though – he is almost a god. How does one mortal stand against an immortal and hope to succeed? Bah, I don't want to talk about it now. It makes me far too nervous," she said, waving her hand dismissively.

It was difficult for Altaïr to tell how long they walk higher up the mountain, the sky in a constant dusky state. But suddenly the sky cleared, as if they had risen above the clouds, and open before them was a small plateau of level ground, to the one side rocks rose in jaggered edges up to the sky, the other a sheer drop down to the ground far below. Altaïr was so taken in by the surrounding area, that at first he didn't notice the giant creature sitting as still as a statue on the only built object – a low semi-circular wall.

"Drem yol lok. Greetings, Dovahkiin," the dragon said, the word Dovahkiin having even more power in his voice than it had when the Greybeard spoke it.

"Greetings Paarthurnax," Quill said politely.

"I see something different in you – you have retrieved the Scroll." the dragon turned his head towards Altaïr. "But, him hind tinvaak - what is on your mind?"

"Yes I have it, but I also have questions regarding it."

"Speak then."

"This is a recent acquaintance of mine, he is from a different world than our own. He is searching for others from his world, that are here – we think – to obtain this Elder Scroll."

The dragon spent a long moment taking Altaïr's measure before continuing. "So what is your question?"

"Would something like the Elder Scroll Dragon work in a different world? It affects time you told me – I would be able to learn the shout I need from those that created it. But will the effect of time displacement work elsewhere?"

"Aam," the dragon pondered. "I have never thought it might need contemplation. But I do not think it would work in a different world."

"Oh," Quill said, slightly disappointed. She had been quite pleased with their theory.

"Then why would the others be interested in seeking it?" Altaïr asked.

"Perhaps they are not seeking it. Perhaps they are seeking something else related to it."

"Maybe the actual act of going back to learn the shout? But what use would it be to them – they would not be able to use it, and there are no dragons where they come from."

"Remember the shout was created by the desperation of men," the dragon replied. "A shout might be created or modified to have new meaning by one that possesses the power to do so, and it might have an entirely different effect."

"So in theory, one could create a new shout – right? But this shout affects Alduin. I'm still not sure what use it would be to them," she said shaking her head.

"It remains only for you to learn the shout, and then you might learn the reason behind their interest in it."

Altaïr neared her, and all but whispered "Are you sure about this?"

She shrugged, taking the scroll from her bag. "Not really."

"Be wary," he cautioned, with a glance towards the dragon.

"Meyz – come," Paarthurnax said to Altaïr. "If I wished to clear the Dragonborn from my brother's way to ensure his return, do you not suppose I could have found an easier way long ago?" he asked, with something that sounded like amusement. "I do not wish to see my brother's insatiable hunger for power let loose on this world again, I had the chance to witness it before. I am very much interested to learn of your world – while she may learn more of her destiny."

Quill looked towards Altaïr standing by the Word Wall, overshadowed by the great dragon, and gave him a brave smile before pulling the scroll open.

"Go voth ahkrin, Mal Dovahkiin."

The air around her shimmered, the swirling lines on the page began rearranging themselves into words and symbols that she could read and understand. The view of the dragon and assassin melted away into a vision of an event long past.

The three heroes of old faced the mighty black dragon at the Throat of the World. Their shout had an amazing effect of the dragon, pulling him from the sky. She could feel the words in her soul as they shouted each individual syllable, and she took the words, making the Thu'um her own.

The heroes managed to defeat the World Eater, or so they thought. Quill realized that the shout – Dragon Rend – crippled him, and in the end they did not slay Alduin. They merely banished him to another time and place - to her time.

If that was possible – in theory one could banish him, and the destruction he wanted to inflict, to _anywhere_.

If the shout could in fact be modified by someone, as Paarthurnax suspected, but that person would need the same kind of desperate motivation as the Nords had when they created the shout to begin with. She had no idea how might go about creating a new shout, but Dragon Rend was proof that it could be done.

"Oh no," she said to herself. "Those people weren't after the scroll. They were after me – they want me to change the shout so that Alduin might be banished to their world. Would that even work? Dragons do not exist there, but with a dragon in their arsenal, no one would be able to stand against their rule. The Assassins wouldn't stand a chance. How they think they will convince Alduin to work with them I can't imagine. He will just betray them in the end – but perhaps they don't realize that. Being foreigners, they might be too arrogant in their scheme… They will destroy their world entirely, and no one would be able to prevent it, they will not be able to control it."

She closed the scroll slowly, feeling as though she was being sucked through a vortex, back to her own time, her head reeling from the odd sensation.

She needed to tell Altaïr and Paarthurnax about this. It had to be stopped, at any cost.

When she opened her eyes to her own time, her vision greatly impaired after reading the scroll, she saw that while she had been 'away' – things had gone entirely awry at the Throat of the World.


	13. An End without an Ending

Quill had no idea what had transpired in the moments while she relived the distant past, or how long it might have been that she was actually absent, but they were no longer alone on the mountain top and things had digressed considerably. She recognized the roar in from the vision she had just had – and looking to the sky she saw Alduin and Paarthurnax in a great word-battle.

"Dovahkiin," Paarthurnax rumbled, as he saw her returned. "Use the Thu'um if the opportunity presents itself!"

But Quill was still too shell-shocked. Her blurry vision made it even more difficult to make sense of the unexpected scene.

Altaïr was a small distance from her, fighting off several heavily armed soldiers; many already lay slain at his feet, and she realized he was hindering them from getting to her. So she had been right, they were looking for her all along. A group of Thalmor agents had joined the battle, and Quill was about to do likewise, when she felt cold steel against her throat.

"Enough!" a man yelled from behind her. She caught a glimpse of black material with intricate red patterns as the wind tugged on the man's robes.

Altaïr froze, looking to where she was. He had already felled majority of the attackers, but a few remained. She had never really had opportunity to just watch him fight – and she had never seen anyone moving so fluidly. Had the situation been different, she would have liked to continue watching; sure she could learn quite a bit. Quill remained dead still, her expression fiercely focused.

Somehow the Templar had managed to even get the attention of Alduin, who bellowed at the insolent little man in fury. "Speak creature – you do not have long!" he demanded.

"I offer you two worlds mighty dragon – where you now have one to gain dominion over," he said. "The people here was able to banish you to a different time, if given the right motivation," here he gave a pointed look towards Altaïr and bringing the blade closer to Quill's throat, "I think this one might be able to take you to my world."

"Why should I care for your world?"

"It is one without magic – there will be no resistance to your rule," he replied smugly. Quill wondered whether the man really was an idiot. With a nod to his few remaining men, they sprang into action, grabbing hold of Altaïr, even as his attention remained firmly focussed on the Templar in black and red.

"Resistance? This mere mortal will not hinder my path!" Alduin laughed. Quill could almost feel the man's disappointment.

"And you are supposed to be the one to blend into the crowds, Assassin?" the man said to Altaïr with a sneer, and renewed determination. The Templars had apparently adopted the clothing style of Skyrim, and indeed looked a lot more like they belonged there than Altaïr did in his assassin's robes, although his cloak did help a bit.

"Change the shout," the man hissed in Quills ear. "Or your Assassin friend dies."

Quill looked at Altaïr, she though he might be shaking his head ever so slightly. She closed her eyes, and drew her breath, and used Dragon Rend - unchanged.

"_I'm sorry, Altaïr_," she thought. She could not – would not – unleash the dragon on a world so wholly unprepared for it.

Alduin roared in rage as he floundered to the ground, Paarthurnax renewing his attack as well.

When she opened her eyes again, Quill saw the remaining soldiers staring over the edge of the cliff, Altaïr nowhere to be seen, and she lost the last little hold on her composure.

"Altaïr! No!" she screamed the "o" turning into a growl as she let the beast form take over.

. . .

Altaïr knew he had one shot at this, and with a quick look over the edge of the cliff, he spotted an area he really hoped was thickly packed snow. While the Templar and Thalmor lackeys were focused on Quill's shout – he hoped she had the sense not to comply with their demands – he took a leap of faith.

He heard Quill scream his name as he fell, the mist soon obscuring the view of the confused men he saw staring over the cliff after him. Hopefully they would not see him survive the fall – if he did. Fortune was is his favor tough, and he landed quite safely in a snow bank.

Taking care, he climbed back up the sheer rock face. He now had the advantage - his presence would be unknown until he desired otherwise.

About half way up, one of the Thalmor men passed him in a swift downward direction. The man's eyes stared unblinking ahead, his chest ripped open. Altaïr increased his climbing speed.

. . .

Quill had given the beast free-reign.

She had not done that since the very first night she had changed. After that night she hated the feeling of not being in control, and she was honestly afraid that the wolf would do something that she would regret. But the wolf was much more powerful when not curbed, and letting all control go, she could feel the beast relishing in the anguish it was inflicting. In between the meteors called forth by Alduin, raining death on many of the terrified people from Altaïr's world, her single-minded focus was to hunt down every last Templar and Thalmor on the mountain.

She ripped one Thalmor's heart out and threw him over the edge of the mountain. The second received her entire bulk crashing into him, as she leapt on the man, tearing his throat out. The third and fourth tried to run, but she crushed their heads into one another, letting them fall in a bloody heap at her feet.

She sniffed the air, and was confused to pick up Altaïr's scent on the wind. She turned to see him climb up the edge, his eyes wide as he saw her.

Altaïr found it a most disturbing vision - and tried to remind himself that the creature before him was a person. One he had come to know quite well, no less. She stood slightly taller than she normally would, her shoulders were broader, and her whole body more muscular, her face had changed into that of a wolf – a thick coat of black fur covered her body, which was drenched in the gore of the men she had killed. But her eyes – they were still her eyes – he though he saw a momentary flicker of surprised joy when she saw him.

Quill didn't know how he did it, but she was very relieved to see him, even though he looked quite shocked. She lifted her muzzle to the sky and gave a short bark, before running towards the last two fleeing soldiers. She broke the one's neck, and wrapped her strong paws around the throat of the other – her immediate bloodlust sated.

The last man was however not going without one last struggle, and from somewhere in his clothing he extracted a short dagger, driving it into her side. Unfortunately for him, the wolf didn't feel pain like she did, it merely growled at the man before snapping his neck too.

Altaïr didn't waste too much time staring at the werewolf, but instead faced the Master Templar. The man was also staring, frozen in horror, at the creature ripping his men apart and only snapped out of it once he saw Altaïr approach him with his sword drawn.

"You can't tell me you don't feel it too," he said, with a wild laugh as he circled Altaïr. "This place! The power it can give you! I have lost the little I could do when I first arrived here, but even that little bit… to have that power in our world!"

"You are insane," Altaïr spat out. "This power would destroy our world – but you would gladly do that had you the Pieces of Eden at your disposal!" He had little desire to speak with the man, and swung at the Templar.

Quill felt the bloodlust and power of the beast drain from her. Bones began to realign themselves, claws retracted into nails, and she felt the pain in her side more sharply as she pulled the dagger out. The problem with changing was when you changed back – you were buck naked.

With difficult movements amidst changing back, she staggered to the Word Wall, taking the partial shelter she could, while struggling to get her armor out as quickly as she could. Once or twice a stream of fire heated the wall behind her, Alduin's attacks relentless.

Quill gave a nauseated shudder as she pulled the armor over her blood covered body – that was the other downside.

Seeing Altaïr more than capable of finishing off the last Templar, she turned her focus to Alduin – thinking more clearly now, she should perhaps have done that from the beginning.

"JOOR ZAH FRUL!" she screamed, Alduin roared in fury.

The Templar made the fatal mistake to take his eyes momentarily from his opponent as the dragon landed close to them. Altaïr drove his blade through the man's chest as his expression turned to dismay.

Quill made sure to stay out of the line of fire – literally. And while Paarthurnax continued his own relentless attack on his brother, Altaïr and Quill did what they could from the ground.

Alduin bellowed in annoyance, and leapt into the sky again, his voice shaking the very ground under their feet.

Quill used Dragon Rend again, and again the black dragon was powerless to deny the sudden pull of gravity.

This continued several times, the shout pulling Alduin to the ground, with him taking to the sky the moment the effect wore off. All the while biting, slashing and shouting destruction out onto the world below him.

At length the dragon stopped attacking them, merely lifting himself into the air, apparently fatigued by the battle.

"I have misjudged you, but Dovahkiin, hin kah fen kos bonaar!" he roared. "Ah, but I forget, you do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah!"

"I was not my decision, but I will stop you!" Quill said fiercely.

"Weak mortal, do not think you have won. The Elder Scroll did not defeat me! I have killed your kind and now their souls will feed my power!" And with this, the mighty dragon was gone.

Paarthurnax retook his position on the wall.

"How will I ever truly defeat him?" Quill asked more to herself, as she and Altaïr stood looking into the direction Alduin had taken.

"You need to discern where he is, and how to get to him. Alduin will return with great wrath."

"Yes, I know – but can we just, not talk about it right now? I just want to catch my breath at least!" she said, bending forward and resting her hands on her knees.

The dragon regarded her silently.

"At least you didn't let the Templars do greater harm to both worlds – I am glad you were not tempted into doing their bidding," Altaïr said.

"Honestly I don't know if I would have been able to change the shout in any case. And I knew they would kill you regardless of what I did. But I also knew you would have done the same," she replied smiling slightly.

He returned her smile.

"He did say he under-estimated you."

"Ha, I guess. How _did_ you get back up here? I thought you had plummeted to your death…" she asked curiously.

"Oh a little trick I learned back home. How on earth can you stand becoming such a terrifying creature yourself?" he asked, without judgment.

"That's why I don't do it all that often. I am stronger, faster, and more resilient, but it is also a lot harder to think straight."

"I am very glad I didn't see that earlier on in our acquaintance. I don't think I would have taken it so well…" he said, not sounding too comfortable with the idea even then.

"Yep, like I say, I don't do it too often," she replied with a toothy grin, but suddenly noticed a golden glow from his pocket.

"What's it doing?" she asked, pointing it out to him.

Altaïr removed the Apple, and examined the object.

He wasn't sure, but he thought the glow appeared to be swirling around the orb, as if it was moved by an unfelt breeze. The glow increased to an almost blinding brightness before dissipating and disappearing back into the orb.

"I don't know," he replied, looking up to find himself not looking at the pale blue eyes he would have thought, instead being regarded mutely by several wide-eyed Assassins, and Malik frozen mid-sentence.

"Altaïr?"

"Malik?" he asked, almost unbelievingly.

Looking around him slightly bewildered, he saw the huge window in his study, his desk a mess of paperwork, and a rapidly melting patch of snow at his feet. The thick white cloak around his shoulders suddenly felt stifling hot.

. . .

"Altaïr?" Quill asked the empty air in front of her, which still glowed slightly gold.

She stood momentarily confounded, and she could have sworn she felt a warm breeze in her face.

After a long while she pulled her hood up, obscuring her features, and left with a deep sigh.


End file.
